Flight is Right
by Metroid13
Summary: Even the strongest of wills can eventually break. Takes place after "The Demon Hand." Complete, finally.
1. The Four Figures

**Flight is Right**

Disclaimer: I don't know why I bother with this; if any executive decides to have a look-see, why would he click on mine? Anyway, I don't own the Terminator franchise or this excellent television program.

Author's Note: This is my first foray into Terminator fiction as a story-writer, and I'll be the first to admit that I know very little of the franchise beyond the first two movies and the TV show. However, ever since seeing the second movie I fell in love with the whole thing. While I agree that the TV show serves as an excellent homage to Sarah Connor and her all-too-short story, I think that John and _his_ all-too important role in the story also deserves a closer look. Therefore I'm making this story decidedly John-centric, although the other characters will definitely have their moments. I'm currently writing these words about an hour before the seventh episode of the TV series, "The Demon Hand." How that episode transpires will probably have an effect on how I'm going to write this. It may even force me to re-structure the entire plot, which I've basically got banged down in advance. However, as all stories are, the product we foresee and the product we get are very different.

Hopefully you'll enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it.

Chapter One: The Four Figures

_KA-BAM BAM BAM...KA-BAM BAM._

_PEW! PEW!_

The library was huge. It was much bigger than any John Connor had ever seen, not that he made a point of inspecting the full size of every one he'd been in, of course. It had an architecture that established itself as thoroughly boiler-plate; utilitarian, functional. The place was built like a rectangle with a hall partitioning another section of the building, which was identical to the part John was running through. The carpet he was sprinting on was a dull, trodden-on red with many spots where the red felt disappeared and gave way to hard, scratchy wood, which made harsh noises when stepped on. The walls John was running past, which were tan in some places, brown in others, were not adorned with paintings, or any art for that matter. You could find the occasional evacuation plan built into the surface, or an emergency telephone. The random outlet in which blank computer monitors were connected. Sometimes a window divided these walls. All the blinds were drawn. He didn't want to risk stopping and trying to get through one. The shelves that John was carefully taking cover behind were large wooden creations, with no smooth angles or pleasing design. They were simple brown planks built into one another for the purpose of shelving books. The shelves themselves were arranged into tight rows that characterized much of the building's interior. The books that served as make-shift bullet-stoppers came in seemingly infinite designs. They appeared in different colors, lengths, widths, and sizes, as all books invariably do. By some of the titles ("_Rule By Steel: The Joesf Stalin Years", "What YOU Need to Know About Our Two Party System",_ and "_100 Tips for the Beginner Novelist" _,) John guessed he was probably in the general information section. Not that that mattered much to him. Right now those books were his best cover against the iron-sights of the rifle that was currently sweeping for him.

By the sound of it, the gun tracking him was probably an AK-74, which he knew was a stupendously deadly weapon in the hands of a marksman. He thought he'd also heard two shots from a pistol, but he couldn't be sure. Although he hadn't seen his attacker yet, he assumed on principle (or at least the principle his mother had indoctrinated in him for years), that he was being pursued by a Terminator. Cybernetic organism, living tissue over metal endoskeleton. An adept infiltrator and deadly assassin. He was being chased by a robot from a future in which he would be the only thing standing between Skynet and a world devoid of humanity. Given all this, he was willing to bet that his assailant knew a thing or two about an AK-74 assault rifle. That rifle had a lot of killing potential, so he had to get out of there fast.

He wasn't supposed to question why he was being attacked, or how he had goofed himself into getting found out. The very, very first rule Sarah Connor had drilled into his mind was the word "run." And running was something he had learned to hate with all his heart, because it represented the fact that his future was _still_ set in stone, that he continued to lack control over his destiny...that, for now, he and his mother had failed to stop Skynet from coming into existence. He was good at running. Years of training had sharpened his mind and his physical power. He could run for a long time without getting tired. He hated it intensely all the same.

(Quick AU: Sorry to break the long-winded introduction, but I just saw "The Demon Hand." Another great episode, and it gives a bit of advancement to the John and Sarah relationship. In relation to this story, I don't think it'll interfere much. Back to the action!)

_KA-BAM BAM!_

_PEW!_

A bullet whizzed directly over his head, about a foot off mark. It sounded like a hornet buzzing by, leaving the sound of its trip in its wake. He cried out as it went by. He'd been shot at before, but it never failed, EVER, to leave behind a sense that the next bullet was about to zero in on his head. The fact that the bullet had come so close was his cue to break course and head in another direction. If you zig-zagged you stood a better chance. The second bullet was even further off mark than the first. It slammed into a book about three feet away from John. Bits of paper blew out from the center of the volume, scattering over the carpet. John was sprinting along between the rows, in the narrow aisle where you make the transition into the opposite row from the one you were originally in. He dived into one of the aisles, his hands held outstretched over his head to avoid damage. He hit a shelf of books laterally, causing four or five books to tumble down over his body. He desperately tried to keep himself steady as he hastily pushed them off, got on his-

Four bullets penetrated the books that hadn't fallen, about a foot above his head as he was getting up. He immediately flopped down and began a hurried crawl down the aisle. He heard soft, cushioned footsteps somewhere's away, interrupted occasionally by a harsh _pak pak! _as booted feet slammed into exposed floor. His assailant was walking at a steady beat, unhurried. It could take its time, all it needed was a clear shot and he'd be dead. John pushed aside several books and squeezed himself under a shelf and into the next aisle. He did the same for the next one, and the next after that. The footsteps continued at an even pace towards him. John wasn't gonna shake it by trying to confuse it. It knew exactly where he was. John pushed himself through another shelf and grunted in surprise; his jacket snagged on one of the book-ends. He jerked it twice, but it refused to come free. His breath became ragged as he quickly tore himself lose from the jacket, hearing a ripping sound. He scrambled forward, leaving the jacket hooked onto the book-end. He was strangely fond of the look it gave him, but survival was more important. The damned thing could have cost him his life if he'd tried to unhook himself manually.

He got up on his feet and started to run until he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eyes, several rows down. Almost as soon as he processed this, he heard two dry clicks emanating from the rifle, followed by a clattering noise as the assailant abandoned the spent gun. John was running at this point, towards the nearest window. Two sharp bangs emitting from a pistol followed him. A different sounding pistol also roared, probably from the attackers free hand.

He couldn't stay here any longer; too many close calls, and he wouldn't always be this lucky. Hell, he'd be lucky if he made it out of this place alive. If this continued any longer, people were gonna start dying. He sprinted through the empty aisles, backtracking toward a window he'd seen earlier. It was odd, though; he hadn't seen anyone since coming in here. Not a single person besides his attacker, and he was more than willing to bet his attacker wasn't a person at all. Behind him, bullets continued to fly toward him, getting closer and closer to an exact mark.

Finally, he made it out of the aisle, moving out into a relatively uncluttered space, beyond the long rows of book shelves. The window, whose view was obscured by blinds, offered his closest route of escape. He was on the ground level, and if he hit it with enough force it would probably shatter. First he had to pull up the blinds, which was the most dangerous part of all. Stopping and pulling a string cost seconds, seconds of doing nothing that would lessen the distance between himself and the attacker. He'd been trained to appreciate hastiness, and stopping like that screamed against his precepts.

He reached the window. He stopped moving and felt nearly overwhelmed as his body suddenly caught up with what he'd been doing. His hands went to his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He felt like he was going to come apart like a cheap card house if he kept moving after this, but he didn't let that notion into his head yet. He brought his right hand up and pulled hard on the slight rope that would pull up the blinds. There was a fluttering noise as they traveled upward. John allowed his eyes to drift idly over to view outside.

He couldn't call them back. The breath went out from his lungs as if someone had nailed him in the chest. His mouth fell open in shock as he took in the view that lay before him.

He was staring at an impossibility. The window gave the observer a view of the Los Angeles skyline, but it was...gone. No, not gone, but ruined. Sweeping arches of buildings had been reduced to jagged lines scratching at the sky. What was once full and filled with seemingly endless rows of mirror-like windows was now gutted and hollow. Something large and bright seemed to lay among the broken skyscrapers, but you couldn't look at it directly without wincing in pain. Smoke billowed endlessly from the ruins. That was just the background. Immediately in front of him, in front of the library, were several mounds of debris, from concrete to glass and asphalt, cars, busses, burnt bed frames, torn clothing. A rusted swing-set. And skulls. Small and large, human remains were strewn about like cruel decorations on these mounds of debris. They were cast among those materials as though they were no better. The ground was ashen, almost grey. No plants seemed to exist. The sky was an angry hue of red. Strobes of light occasionally stabbed through the haze like search-lights; they came from flying ships of jet-black color and utilitarian construction. Something tall and rolling upright cruised at a hasty speed a mile away, occasionally stopping to probe around with a search-light. The dead silence was occasionally broken by a piercing scream of pain and despair.

Judgement Day. It had happened, but...how?

His eyes were glued to this view in front of him, and, of itself, his hand moved to pull back the blind again. He didn't want to go out there. He could stay, possibly take his chances with the assailant, possibly hide-

His hand stopped. He realized that there were people outside, in the small courtyard ahead of him. About four people, all kneeling, facing away. They were perhaps twenty feet from where he was. Standing beside them, holding a large cannon-like weapon, was a Terminator. John had never seen one in its entirety before, without the human flesh covering most of its metal skeleton. He'd expected some sort of snarling, hellish man made disfigured by machinery, staring forward with its piercing red eyes...

From behind it looked...like a man made of chrome. God, it looked so functional. Like it wasn't built for anything other than functioning and performing objectives. It was completely utilitarian, its appearance wasn't meant to automatically strike fear into the hearts of men who opposed it; the nature of its construction alone did that.

The four people outside remained motionless. The Terminator stared at them and spoke in an iron voice, "Turn around."

They all got on their feet and turned together, eventually swinging to face the library. They all saw him at the same time, their eyes focusing on him with laser-like precision. The woman was at the far left. She had dark, almost black hair, but it had streaks of grey. Her face was wrinkled and worn, but was cold and sharp at the same time, as though age had not diminished her senses. She was wearing khaki combat fatigues and similar pants. Her mouth was set into a ghost of a frown, but it seemed almost...pitying.

Next to her was a man with brown, unkept hair and a broad forehead. His eyes, though alert, appeared almost sensitive and kindly. There were traces of a goatee on his face. He was wearing a green overcoat, with a grey shirt underneath. He was frowning, but his eyes betrayed the anger (disappointment?) he likely felt.

The third man was extremely tall, with brown, smoothly combed hair dominating the crown of his head. Where his eyes should have been was instead a pair of gigantic sunglasses. He was wearing a jet black motorcycle jacket and biker jeans. He was completely expressionless, he just seemed to stare at John without any reaction other than analysis.

The fourth man was also tall, but not as tall as the one next to him. His hair was brown like the other two men, ending in a widows peak along his broad forehead, which was lined with two scars on the left side. His green eyes were cold and calculating, resembling tiny slits. Another scar stitched a line across his left cheekbone. He wore a plain olive drab uniform, devoid of markings. Like the man next to him, he was virtually expressionless except for his eyes, which regarded John's presence with something close to disgust.

In unison, they all pointed at him, their arms held rigidly ahead of them, fingers stabbed toward John. He took an involuntary back-step from the window. He shrunk under their exacting gaze, because they made him feel guilty. They were accusing him. He had done something wrong to these people, people he didn't even know.

The Terminator ignored them and what they were doing. It raised its own arm, the one which held the laser-cannon. Barely pausing, it fired four times in unison, each blast of plasma completely obliterating the heads of the people staring at John. He upper body jerked up in terror with each shot. His hands were shaking unbearably, his legs could barely remain straight. He wanted to get away from here but it was as if he was standing in cement, his eyes...anchored to these dying people. And as they died, their survivors, until they themselves died, remained unfaltering. They seemed unconcerned with their incoming deaths. They wanted to make their point known to John, whatever it was. Finally, the last person, the one with the uniform, collapsed bonelessly as his head was vaporized. It's task done, the Terminator swung around and, without pause, fired at John.

He yelled out in terror as the blast tore away half of the wall in front of him. Bits of brick and concrete flew scattered into the air, shattering the window as they flew. John found control of his senses and backed away, out of sight of the machine outside. Dimly, he could hear it beginning to move towards the broken wall, intent on killing all it found. John had to get away, hide somewhere safe and get a hold of the situation. He turned.

He found his protector, Cameron Phillips, standing in front of him. She was so beautiful; she had a face that could have been designed only with machine-like precision. Little wonder; she was a machine, just like the one stalking John from outside. And yet she was capable of such...human qualities at times.

He saw none of that in her now, her face was empty of emotion, or anything for that matter. She looked positively blank, almost uninterested. But her eyes were focused, for a pistol, held in her hand, filled in the gap of space between them: it was pointed at his head. She wasn't looking at him, as she usually did. She was sighting on him from behind a gun. John was frozen again. His eyes drifted toward her belt, finding two clips of 5.45 mm rounds attached to it; ammunition for an AK-74. She was his assailant. She was after him, trying to kill him. She was _going_ to kill him. He began to back away, and he remembered the other Terminator outside. Fighting to control his voice, he tilted his head to Cameron's face.

"Cameron, what-" he began, hurrying to get the words out before-

Without warning she dropped her aim a few feet and fired. The sound of it firing was nothing more than a high-pitched bark. The round struck him directly in the knee cap, causing the joint to shatter in his leg. Small pieces of bone and blood spewed from the open wound and splattered on the floor. The pain John felt was sudden and exquisitely intense. He screamed in pain, barely able to control anything his own movement anymore. His legs gave out from under him and he collapsed, falling backwards. His head slammed into the wall with a smack, and his vision went bright red as he lay there, writhing in agony. He didn't even bother trying to put pressure on the wound, he knew it was over. He started to moan in pain, unable to bear it. He didn't want to remember his mothers lessons, about how it was important to control pain, to master it and not let it overcome you. That would do him jackshit. This was it, he was done for.

He laid there, staring at the ceiling, his breath coming in short gasps. Something seemed to be buzzing in his ear; the sound of his own pain. Cameron appeared overhead and looked down at him, her face completely expressionless. She stood there for a moment and then crouched down, bringing her face down low over his own. He could feel her breath. She looked so empty, so hollow, when she could appear almost lifelike at times. Why had she done this to him? Why had he been betrayed?

What had he done to make her do this to him? What had he done to all these people, people he didn't know and people he trusted, to make them despise him like this?

"Don't worry," she said tonelessly, interrupting his thoughts, "This is for the best."

The hellish red eyes of the other Terminator appeared in his vision. He whimpered; that was all he could manage at this point, he was so spent. Cameron's eyes flicked up at the other cyborg. It's own eyes swiveled up to acknowledge her presence, and it a slight nod: it was her kill, she deserved to make the finishing blow. That's what that nod basically translated to. She was being given the pleasure of finishing John, a deference to her skill. She nodded in return and suddenly John was staring into the barrel of a pistol.

He barely felt, or saw anything, as the gun suddenly jerked upward with the explosive force of the shot, and the bullet entered his head.

* * *

John let out a cry of terror as he suddenly came awake. He thrashed for a moment on his bed, grabbing a pillow and, after squeezing it for a moment, threw it across the room. He let out another yell as he jerked upward and stared wide-eyed into the darkness of his bedroom, each shuddering breath shaking his entire body. He was drenched in sweat, but felt a chill all the same. He stared around, unblinking for a moment, and his breathing slowed gradually. A silence that roared in his ears descended.

His hand bolted up to his forehead, pushing away a few locks of hair, and felt. There was no ragged, bloody hole. He was alive.

A dream. A _bad_ dream. He was alive. Everything was fine. He went on shaking, not able to stop. He'd never dreamt so vividly in all his life, not once. Any other time and it was like someone fogging up a piece of glass with their breath and then scribbling a design on it, only to have it fade away within moments. This wasn't like that. He remembered...all of it.

Goddamnit, and he'd screamed.

As if on cue with that particular thought, the door to his room opened, barely making a sound. Cameron stood in the hallway, sweeping his room for threats. All he could see was her silhouette. A pistol dangled from her right hand. She appeared relaxed, where his mother would have looked tense and ready for combat. He knew for a fact that it wouldn't take much time to go from "relaxed" mode to "ready to kill everything evil in the room" mode if circumstances provided.

Of himself, his hands brought up the blanket up to his neckline, as if it would do any good in hiding him from a cyborg killer. It was irrational of him; Cameron was his protector, after all. And yet...

"John?", Cameron called out. It wasn't an "are you there?" sort of call; she was staring right at him. She wanted him to say something.

He didn't _want_ to say anything, not to her, not after what had happened. What he wanted was to make a dash for the closet. That, too, was a stupid, immature thought. Dreams were dreams, they represented base thoughts that couldn't be expressed in anything BUT dreams. Cameron wasn't going to shoot him. She was programmed to protect his life. The last thing she could do was stalk him and kill him.

He cleared his throat and, tightly controlling his voice, said, "Yeah."

Cameron remained where she was, but nodded her head at that, "You were dreaming," she said in her matter-of-fact tone. She probably knew that as she was coming in here, too. That was one of the things that irritated him about Terminators (or at least the ones sent to protect him,) they always stated the obvious.

"Yeah," John said. He realized he must have looked tense, upright and clutching at the blankets. He slowly settled back into the bed. Cameron remained standing at the door; there was more to say, it seemed. "Yeah," John repeated, a bit more clearly, "I was dreaming. Sorry for the noise."

"That's strange." It was a statement, spoken as a blunt fact. There was no hint of curiosity or questioning in her tone, she was merely stating the obvious again; it was strange of him to dream like this.

"Uh," John retorted.

"You usually don't react as you just did is what I mean to say," Cameron went on. She began to resemble an actual person now, and not just a black-over-white silhouette. She was wearing night clothes, a considerable advancement from her previous policy of next-to-nothing-night clothes. Her shining brown eyes were focused on his own, her expression one of puzzlement. "Usually you sleep rather soundly." She stared at him for a few more seconds and added, "Was it a nightmare?"

"I, uh, guess," he answered, rubbing at his forehead. It was pretty slick with sweat. Dropping his hand to his face, he made as if to shield his eyes from the light coming from the hallway, "Let me go back to bed." He wanted her away from him; he was already beginning to strain at the memory of her holding a gun to his head and firing, but remember he did. He didn't want to see her after something like that. He preferred to be left alone after something like that.

"Your mother has many nightmares," Cameron said, evidently ignoring his request, "People have nightmares when their conscience isn't clear." She was obviously quoting there; she did that all the time.

"Right," he muttered, and he made a show of wincing and closing his eyes, "C'mon, it's late."

"Is your conscience clear, John?"

He opened his eyes slightly and stared over at her. "What?"

She didn't miss a beat and repeated the question in the exact same tone of voice. Was she supposed to say things like that? He cleared his throat again; a lump had suddenly formed. "Yeah," he said, and he found himself closing his eyes tight now. He felt himself reddening with the lie, "Of course it's clear, why wouldn't it be?"

He didn't see her reaction to that. All he heard was her voice, "Sorry to have bothered you." Then the door creaked shut.

His conscience was not clear. He felt guilty. Those people, stabbing their fingers toward him before their deaths. Cameron hunting him down, shooting him. Accusing, punishing him. For what? How could he know? He didn't know, and yet he felt guilty all the same.


	2. The Man in the Yellow Hat

**Flight Is Right**

Disclaimer: I do not own the L.A. news corporation KTLA. Likewise, I do not own the works of website designer Daniel Forsyth, who is briefly mentioned here. Obviously this is a work of fiction.

Chapter Two: The Man in the Yellow Hat

**9:04 **said the alarm clock to John Connor as he roused from sleep and looked over. Now, obviously the alarm clock couldn't speak to --much less directly address-- John, but he always had mental goofs like that whenever he just woke up. Groaning softly, he settled back into the nearby pillow and thought long and hard over something: week_day_ or week_end_? Had he missed two classes and would shortly be running out the door or could he just lay there and stare at the ceiling for an hour, rousing back into consciousness on his own terms?

Yesterday was...was...Friday. Friday was when he...had clumsily asked Cheri about some chemistry problem, interjected, in Spanish, himself into _another_ argument between Morris and that guy he didn't know the name of, brought clean shirts to Derek, cried in front of his mother not far from where he was laying now while accusing her of betraying his trust in her, and then helped her burn the recovered hand of a T-888. Right, so that was Friday, which was yesterday. Ipso facto, today was Saturday, thus allowing him to stare at the ceiling for an hour.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that prospect. A lot of thoughts could go through his head in an hours time. Thoughts and memories that he preferred be left unthought, and unremembered. He didn't, for example, want to think about the nightmare he'd had. He'd been terrified of going back to sleep, fearing its return. Dreams had a way of making sense when you were "in" them, and then suddenly becoming incomprehensible when you woke up and thought about it afterward. His nightmare was like that except for the fact that it made a sort of disjointed amount of sense, and that was one of the scary things about it. Those people, the four figures, accusing him without words. Did he _deserve_ that, and the punishment that was delivered afterward? He felt that he did, and he just didn't know why. He didn't want to think about it. It was just a bad dream, nothing more.

He shivered. Goddamnit, but it felt so real, though.

As he'd expected, he ended up laying there for an hour, turning and fidgeting, lost in a maelstrom of thoughts, letting himself really wake up. He knew it wouldn't matter, though, if he got out of bed now or spent the entire day in it. His mom would _like _him staying in bed the whole day, because he was so damned important. She'd once said to him, a little after they'd destroyed the Cyberdyne building, that his sick days were like holidays to her. She didn't have to worry about him. To the casual observer, they'd think John was overly sheltered, that his mom loved him too much to let him out of the house. In reality --John didn't consider her point of view-- she wanted to keep him wrapped in a box because of he'd become, not what he was. What about his life, his wants? Did those things mean nothing to her? Did she value her own son only because he'd become a military mastermind in the future, or was her love for him as genuine as he'd always thought? After watching that tape from Pescadero he just didn't know anymore.

His nostrils suddenly twitched; he smelled food cooking. He sighed and pushed himself up out of bed, only too happy to have a distraction from all the self-pity.

* * *

He found Derek Reese and his mom, Sarah Connor, in the kitchen. Derek was sitting down and looking over at the nearby TV, which was turned to channel five, KTLA. On the table were several of the photographs from the resistance safe-house, along with a plate of untouched pancakes. John looked over to his side of the table and found another plate waiting there. Pancakes again. His mom was still standing near the stove, staring down at a frying pan with bacon popping and sizzling on it. Both of them looked up as he walked in. 

John didn't quite know what to think about Derek yet. The guy could be pretty contemptuous one minute and then understanding the next. John was used to people concealing their emotions from each other in his life. Derek, on the other hand, seemed to wear his emotions right on his sleeve. Living ones life among rag-tag rebels where nothing could really be kept private would do that to a person, he guessed. John knew that it would be difficult to establish his trust in Derek. If he could just tell him about Kyle being his father, he knew...

It didn't do to think about that. He had a rough time of it that day, when Derek had been wounded. The guilt of not letting Derek know Kyle's actual fate gnawed at him, and he didn't understand why his mother wouldn't let him say a word about it. How important was it that he be kept ignorant?

Sarah gave a brisk nod and said "Hey you." She gestured to his plate. Derek grunted something that sounded like "morning," but John couldn't be sure. He was pretty intent on what he was looking at.

"Morning," John said, and he yawned loudly, coaxing a chuckle out of his mother. To him it sounded a bit forced. She probably wanted him to quickly forget about what had happened last night so things could smooth over. He sighed and walked over to the table taking the seat across from Derek. He pulled the plate of pancakes over to him and started eating. One thing he'd always noticed about his mom; she never failed to make pancakes when she intended to do something that day.

He looked over to Derek. The older man didn't seem to notice. He was holding two photographs in front of him, probably comparing them. With an exasperated sigh, Derek put the photo in his left hand down, replacing it with another. The photo in his right hand was smaller than the others; John had never seen it before.

As he looked back down toward his plate, he noticed the photo of Andy Goode. The _late_ Andy Goode, apparently. His death had thrown Sarah off the trail of the Turk. The image was set apart from the rest, and a red-colored line had been drawn through it.

"Too bad about him," Derek said. John's head tilted back up to Derek in mild surprise, not having known that he was being watched. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mom's back stiffen. She knew who was being talked about. She had pretty much taken responsibility for Andy Goode's murder.

"Yeah, I guess," John said. He hadn't really cared much one way or another about Andy. He definitely respected the mans skill with computers, while also respecting that that skill had made him dangerous. Although he hated to even think it, the world was probably better off with him dead. The only regret he had about Andy's death was that the deed hadn't been done by Cameron. At least that way they'd have been able to destroy the Turk along with him. Now the damned thing was missing, making everyone's lives harder.

Derek held up the smaller photograph to John, "Recognize this guy?"

John looked at the man depicted in the photo and said, "No. Where'd you get that?"

"The machine did it." It sounded like an accusation. He pointed at the guy in the photo, "He has the Turk."

John took a bite out of a pancake, "Better find him then."

"Easy to say," Derek said, and he gave John a severe look. John hated the way Derek's eyes were so startlingly green, like his own: it reminded him that he was looking at family. "Not really that easy to do."

John managed an indifferent shrug. He got the feeling that most of what he said around Derek was either perceived as stupid or naive; it was only fair, since he knew John in the future and naturally had higher expectations. Derek coughed a bit, "You didn't sleep all that good?"

John kept forgetting that he'd screamed when he woke up. "I had a bad dream."

Sarah walked over and dropped several pieces of bacon on John's plate, "About what?" she asked, and took a seat. She looked right at him.

He cleared his throat and looked down, "I don't ask you about yours." He looked up at her.

Sarah's lips formed a thin line across her face. If she wanted to get mad over shit like that, she could be John's guest, he still didn't feel fully reconciled with her. After a moment, she sighed and said, "Alright." She turned her head to Derek, "Any luck with those?"

"Not yet," Derek said as John turned around and looked over to the TV. The KTLA logo appeared; just back from a commercial break, it seemed.

"Welcome back to KTLA Morning News," said the anchor, and then he introduced himself and his co-anchor. They made a few idle comments about the weather. The lead anchor then said, "In local news, Pescadero State Hospital (John noticed an abrupt end to Sarah and Derek's conversation) has a new patient: one of its former staff. Let's go to Jennifer Hall with the story, Jenny?" Sarah appeared next to John. She was staring at the TV.

Someone --presumably Jennifer-- started talking as the camera panned down the white immaculate hallways of the mental hospital. John hadn't been there too long back in 1997, but he still recognized some of it. By Sarah's pained expression, she wasn't interested in recognizing _any_ of it.

"Although Pescadero has had its fair share of colorful inmates, ("Bitch," Sarah spat) the notorious state mental hospital hasn't seen anything quite like _this._"

A clip of a man with white, ill-kept hair and a haggard expression on his face began. He was sitting on the bed in what appeared to be a cell. A sharp intake of breath from Sarah.

"Peter Silberman, a renowned criminal psychologist and former Pescadero staff member, was incarcerated here yesterday following a special FBI directive. The exact reason for this is unknown, but may be connected to the injury and kidnapping of a federal agent. Since then he is quoted to be 'completely insane,' by a guard who spoke on the condition of anonymity. He often screams at anyone who comes close to his room, saying, quote 'they're here, they're here.' End-quote."

John turned to his mother, "Didn't you go to see him yesterday?"

Sarah nodded and looked at her son, "Found his house on fire."

"Ellison?" Derek asked quickly.

Sarah was silent for a moment, looking at the television. They were talking about one of the guards having been murdered back in 1997, a death attributed to escaped inmate Sarah Connor. "I found him inside and dragged him outt."

John nodded at that. He knew Agent Ellison had worked on trying to capture Sarah in 1999, but he didn't deserve to be left for dead just because of that. Derek, on the other hand, sighed, as though to say "what can you do?"

"You should have let him die."

Everyone turned around to face Cameron Phillips. She was standing at the front door, which, by the light cast into the house from outside, was ajar. John hadn't even heard it open. The "female" Terminator had her arms crossed and was looking toward Sarah. Sometimes, to add emphasis to her words, she often employed human sensibilities. The arm-crossing was just mimicry, not actual emotion.

Well, that's what John believed anyway. Cameron was obviously a lot more advanced than her bigger, more Austrian-accented predecessors in that she was able to more convincingly mimic human emotions. Although it made her seem less awkward at school (and he had to face it, it sure as hell made her more interesting), he wasn't sure how useful that ability would be in the long-run. Her kind was made to kill, after all.

Lately though, she was becoming more...Well, "human" was the only way John could see it as. She had a way of seeming (being? Why use "seeming" if he wasn't sure?) awfully detached from the regular Terminator _modus opprendi_, at least sometimes.

"I was wondering where you were," Sarah said, a smile on her face. Whenever she wasn't pissed off at her, John's mother was always heckling his protector. Cameron cocked her head and frowned; she didn't like that Sarah had skirted her statement. She said, "I was outside."

"No kidding," John said. He picked up a piece of bacon and bit it. KTLA had moved onto discussing the upcoming regional elections, it's "human piece" done with. Derek had gone back to examining photographs. He had turned himself fully away from Cameron.

Sarah, obviously not seeing a way out of Cameron's accusation, said, "I think we've established that I don't kill people unless they shoot first."

"He could become a threat to you in the future," Cameron argued. Although she sometimes departed from the standard Terminator doctrine, the basic rule remained the same; kill everything that threatens you.

Sarah sighed, "I'm not discussing this right now. My choices are my own, I'll deal with the consequences, if any." She turned over to Derek and nudged him, "Anything?"

Cameron walked into the kitchen and took the seat at the front of the table, between John and Derek. John felt a brief chill as her eyes fell on him, acknowledging that he was _still_ alright. He likely wouldn't soon forget the whole "kill me in my dreams" part of the nightmare he'd had last night. Cameron scanned the table for a moment, her eyes settling briefly on the photographs. Then she turned immediately to John and said, "Did you sleep well?"

And there she went, asking about it. Why was everyone so hung up on his own personal neuroses? His mom had nightmares almost every night, about any number of things, and no one batted an eyelash, not even Cameron. Charley had even gotten used to it when they were living together. And the moment _he_ had a bad night, everyone wanted the details. Drove him nuts. John narrowed his eyes and said, "Yeah. I did." He let his voice get nice and vindictive. See what she thought of that.

Unfortunately Cameron seemed to forget about making small talk as he responded, for she immediately grabbed a photograph out of Derek's hand and scanned it for a moment. Derek immediately darkened with anger.

"Did I ask you to-" Derek began, his voice rising with each word, but Sarah cut him off with a wave of her hand. She stared at Cameron, waiting for an explanation. John sat there and smoldered, only noticing that he'd been ignored.

"I know him." Cameron explained. She put down the photo. "His name is Daniel Forsythe."

"How the hell do you know that?" Derek asked before anyone else could come up with something. Usually he sounded accusing just for the hell of it; he really hated her, but now he seemed genuinely confused. That question seemed to satisfy Sarah, for she closed her mouth and stood there, waiting for an answer. As for John, he couldn't have phrased it better himself. They all looked at Cameron expectantly.

They were all disappointed; "His picture is in my files, along with that name. Nothing else."

"I thought they scrubbed your memory," Sarah said.

"They do," Cameron replied, "The picture is an imbedded file; it's coded and it represented a low amount of risk to the success of my reprogramming. "

John got up and picked up the photograph. It was definitely from the safe-house, he recognized it. It depicted a young man wearing a ridiculously retro yellow hat. Below that was a brown-blonde hair color that ended in a widows peak on his slight forehead. His eyes, which were pretty huge, were blue, and covered with glasses. He had a very small nose and mouth, but possessed a rather formidable jutting chin. He appeared to be sitting in an office cubicle. A card on his chest read in clear, bold letters "Cyberdyne Systems."

"Well, he definitely worked at Cyberdyne." John noted out loud.

"All these guys did," Derek said, gesturing to the batch of photographs on the table. He inhaled sharply and said, "It's probably not too important, we should be looking for the Turk."

"This is the only lead we have," Sarah pointed out. She turned back to Cameron, "Any idea why he'd be there? In your files, I mean."

She shrugged, "I don't know. I never really thought about it until now."

A short silence followed. Everyone but Cameron looked down, deep in thought. After taking a moment to look around in confusion, she seemed to recognize this and imitated them, although her eyes remained fixed on the photo. John put it down in front of her and started trying to remember where he'd put the ice-breaker. It was a hacking program imbedded in a flash-drive he'd picked up online. Something told him he was gonna have to do some hacking in the next five minutes.

He was right. Sarah looked up and said, "John, get on the computer and look him up in the job registry."

"Got it," John said. He turned and jogged back over to his room, leaving Sarah and Derek to dicker over their response to this development. He felt glad to have something to do now, albeit temporarily, although he knew that Sarah would act as the ultimate decider in how they'd handle this. He didn't really get the logic behind that, given that he was supposed to become the future leader of mankind and all. Shouldn't he have some say? A little give? After the whole coltan incident, his mom had become way more constricting on what he was permitted to do in relation to stopping Skynet.

He didn't want this burden, far from it. Sometimes he felt as if he'd go insane figuring out how he was supposed to grow into this messiah figure everyone saw him as. But if the War was inevitable, he felt that he oughta do _something_ at least.

He walked into his room and booted up his laptop. It was a speedy little number, not as fast as bigger CPU's, but fast enough to suit him. He used it mostly for internet surfing and hacking, little else. A bigger computer would have been a useless waste of money. Outside, he heard a little kid shout in glee, accompanied by the sound of a bouncing ball. Loud music boomed somewhere far off, the vibrations it sent being the only thing that really reached his ears. He sighed.

He looked back to the laptop, finding it at the desktop. Although he could run circles around any firewall, he wanted to be sure he wasn't gonna end up wasting his time. He clicked on the internet icon and brought up Google. Typed in "Daniel."

He stopped and frowned, wondering how the last name was spelt. He hadn't heard it used as a surname before this. Grunting, he pushed himself away from his desk and yelled "How's 'Forsythe' spelled?"

Cameron appeared at the doorway a second later, causing John to flinch back in surprise. "Uh-"

"F-o-r-s-y-t-h-e." Cameron recited.

"Thanks, " he said, chuckling. He turned back to his computer and heard her advancing into the room. "What're they talking about?"

"Whether or not it's more important to pursue this or the Turk." She looked over his shoulder at the screen. She smelled vaguely of fertilizer, which had John literally scratch his head for a moment, "No, there's no 'c' in his name."

"Oh, yeah," John said, and corrected the mistake. He clicked the search button. "I think we should focus on the Turk, but no one ever asks for my opinion."

Cameron gave him a side-long look, "What's your opinion?"

He turned away from the screen and stared at her. Of himself, he looked at her for signs of dirt or grass. He saw nothing.

Cameron stared back for a moment, "That was an attempt at humor. It eases tension."

John sighed and looked back, "Sometimes it makes it worse when the joke is delivered like shit."

"I apologize."

The list of hits appeared on the screen. John gave them a brief glance, seeing that most were about a video or web-site designer of the same name. The only difference was that the other Dan lacked the 'e' at the end of Forsythe. Cameron pointed at the link, which led to the guy's wesbite. Some flash art along with a music track came on. He selected "about." The guy's picture showed up, along with a brief biography.

"Not him," Cameron said.

"Yeah," John agreed. He exited the site and skimmed the rest of the page, "Not much here besides that other guy." He went back up and put "California" in the search box. Pressed 'enter.'

"What were you doing outside?" John asked. He looked at her.

"Checking the perimeter," she replied easily, "Still have to watch for Cromartie."

"Right," John said softly. Terminators could lie. He knew that. Why the hell would she lie about what she'd been doing outside, though?

The top of the page had the words "Daniel Forsythe, research administrator" listed. The link specified was "Sacremento Robotics Lab - Home Page."

John's eyes brightened, "This has gotta be it."

Cameron was silent, she merely gestured to the page listed. Clicking on it brought him to a glitzy web page entitled "Sacremento Robotics. Dedicated to Unlocking the Future of Artificial Life Forms." Below that was a basic news page, with the last entry having been made only a day ago. He gave the news items a brief look. The lab was apparently an organization that did research into applications for robots. Looking at the mission statement page, he found that the lab wasn't interested in military stuff.

"'Meet the team'?" Cameron suggested, pointing.

John clicked.

**Sacremento Robotics has employed some of the brightest minds of our generation to challenge these issues that we face. Listed here are only a few of those amazing men and women. Contact information is listed on individual pages. **

**ANNOUNCEMENT: Andrew Goode, one of our most loyal subscribers and friends, was tragically murdered earlier this month in an act of senseless gun violence. Visit his memorial ****here**

**David Nossbaum**** - Founder of Sacremento Robotics**

**Amanda Nossbaum**** -**** Co-founder of Sacremento Robotics**

**Miles Benitt**** - Head of Theoretical Research**

**Daniel Forsythe**** - Head of Practical Research**

**Haley Carter**** - Hardware Testing Administrator**

Cameron kept her finger anchored toward Daniel's bolded name as John continued to scroll down. He waved her off, "I know, I know. Just a sec."

The rest of the names weren't highlighted; he clicked on Daniel's name. "Whoa." A short biography was listed. It looked as if Daniel was concerned with the more practical applications of robotics, such as home service and the like. John liked the idea of that; no guns were involved, especially not hand-held plasma cannons. It mentioned that he'd been a research assistant around 1994 at Cyberdyne Systems. The photo depicted was different from the one he'd seen at the kitchen table. He was fatter and his facial features had expanded considerably. Where he'd been wearing spectacles in the other photo, his face was now bare. He looked a lot more, well, richer than he had in the other photograph. One thing persisted, however: the absurd yellow hat.

"Mom's going to wanna see this. "

* * *

John left the explaining to Cameron; she had a photographic memory, after all, and she could deliver it a lot more precisely than he could. Afterward, Sarah put her hand on her chin and exhaled, her eyes drifting toward the front door. She did that whenever she knew she'd have to leave the house for the day. After a moment, she looked back over to Cameron and her son, "I think we've got another field trip coming our way." 

John quickly shook his head, "Mom, Sacremento's like, five hundred miles away."

"I know," she said. "I don't expect you to come if you don't want to. This guy definitely needs seeing to, though."

"Well it kinda depends," John said. "Do you just wanna talk to him or shoot him in the head?"

"The latter," Cameron said. Both Connor's glared at her. She looked briefly embarrassed and said, "That was sarcasm. I would aim for a non-lethal spot first unless I was sure he was involved in Skynet's creation."

"Uh huh," John groaned. Amusing though her naivety was, Cameron could grate on on peoples nerves after a while. He glanced at his mother. Or maybe it was more of a glare.

Sarah sighed, "I'm not gonna do anything to him until I know what's going on."

"So...what, you're gonna just watch him?"

"I guess so," Sarah confirmed.

"Sounds fuckin' useless," John spat, causing Sarah to give him a cold, suddenly questioning look. He averted his eyes, "I mean, the guy probably just builds robots. He could have nothing to do with Skynet."

"Anyone who worked with Miles Dyson warrants investigation," Cameron said, coming to Sarah's defense.

"Exactly," Sarah said quietly. "And now we have another name to go by." She inclined her head, "Do you want me to stay, John?"

He looked back up and opened his mouth. He closed it and looked away again. He cleared his throat, "It...it's not about that." God, was he afraid of her leaving him, even for a little while? He was. He depended on her.

Sarah nodded, "Alright then. I'll need someone to come with me."

"Do you intend to drive or take a plane?" Cameron asked.

"We'll be driving. Simpler that way," Sarah responded.

"I'm staying here." John said. He fidgeted a bit where he stood, "I wouldn't be very useful."

"More than you'd think, but fine," Sarah sighed. She looked to Cameron, "You'll have to come along then."

"I can't," Cameron said firmly, "Cromartie is still out there, and Derek alone wouldn't be able to protect John's life."

"I can take care of myself," John said. Both women waved their hands absently at him. Discluding him.

"Derek's getting better," she said, "And he's dealt with your kind before."

Cameron narrowed her eyes, "With plasma rifles, sure. By himself he wouldn't stand a chance."

"He'd have me," John said angrily. They looked at him. Cameron raised an eyebrow. "I can handle a shotgun no problem. Just..." he made a weird gesture with his hands like a gun firing, "aim for the head, right?"

"You run at the first sign of him," Sarah corrected. She looked back to Cameron.

The female Terminator's shoulders slumped, a frankly peculiar thing for her to do, "If you ask me to go, I will. Understand the risks." She looked over at John, waiting.

"I'll be fine," he muttered.

Cameron stared at John for a few seconds, looking faintly annoyed. "I'll get the pistols. On your head be it." She walked out of the room, headed for the weapons trunk, leaving Sarah and John alone. John was resolutely looking away from Sarah and towards the window. He licked his lips as he felt his mother staring at him. He didn't want to talk to her. He was thinking about the Shakespeare quote Cameron had thrown at them. Where had THAT come from?

"We'll have to talk this over with Derek," Sarah said.

"I'll do it."

"I want you to stay right here in the house. Go out only if you have to."

"Didn't expect anything less." He sighed, "We done?"

She spread her hands out, "Yes." She gave him a look, "John...are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he looked at her, "Really." He didn't want to see her leave. Even after what had happened yesterday, he knew it'd be rough without her. He relied on her to make the quick decisions, even the ones he quickly protested against. That void would leave him confused. When had he gotten so dependent on her?

Sarah sighed, "John...if only I could believe that."

He ignored her, "Be careful out there."

"You too."


	3. Abrupt Shift

**Flight is Right**

Disclaimer: Here there be reassurances against copyright infringement. Also, I recently found out that Thomas Dekker, the man who portrays John Connor, is a vegetarian. You may rest assured that no actual pigs were slaughtered in this story to provide for the fictional bacon that John ate in the second chapter.

Chapter Three: Abrupt Shift

John Connor was staring outside when Cameron Phillips entered the kitchen. He heard her stop for just a second to scan the room and move on toward him. The table was bare except for condiments, the chairs nearby were pushed in. Derek's photographs were missing. The television set, still on channel five, was muted. Sink was filled with dishes, which would fall on John to clear up later. The blinds for the window, except for the bit where John was looking out of, were drawn.

Cameron stopped a few feet away from him. He felt himself tense up as he always did when he knew someone was staring at him...analyzing him. There was a brief silence.

"What are you looking at?" she asked after about ten seconds.

He didn't answer; instead he moved away from the window and made room for her. Easily taking the hint, Cameron walked forward and looked outside. The street wasn't very busy; it never really was, as this was a rather obscure part of town. Some children were playing tag out on the neighboring side lawn. Sarah Connor was fueling the jeep they'd liberated from Carter the Terminator's henchmen. A fuel tank lay on the hood of the vehicle as she worked. Every ten seconds she would cast a glance back toward the house, making sure everything was still in one piece. John stared at Cameron's back, wondering if she knew what was happening. She was always pretty surprising in her understanding of this kind of stuff. And sometimes she was perfectly oblivious. John wasn't sure which side of her he liked better.

Cameron turned, "You were looking at your mother?"

"Yeah," he said. He kept his face straight, not wanting to betray the mild pleasure he felt at her perceptiveness. He added emphasis with a nod.

She returned the nod, imitating it perfectly. "You don't want to see her go." Her eyes drifted back towards the window.

John blinked. He hadn't expected her to get this all at once. Goddamn, but she getting better at this, as if she wasn't good enough already. He smirked sardonically, "Nah, I could care less about her. It's you I'm torn up over."

As if she'd been pulled by a rope, Cameron swung toward John and fixed her eyes upon his, staring. A look of frank confusion adorned her face, but her huge brown eyes were almost slits now. She was doing an analysis again. Christ, she probably thought he'd been serious. Well, he hadn't. Right? Christ, why had he even joked about it to her?

Her mouth tugged slightly at the sides into a ghost of a smile.

John opened his mouth to clarify that he'd meant that sarcastically, but all he heard was, "Ah, um, ahh." He shut his mouth. He turned his head downward and then up again just as quickly. He cleared his throat. Cameron's HUD was probably surging with all sorts of denotations, like "rising blood pressure in facial region," or something.

But it was true, right? He didn't mind seeing her go! She creeped him out, both in the ways she tried to seem like a human and in the ways she made it clear that she was anything but. He rattled off a phrase in his head; "_Cybernetic organism, living tissue over metal endoskeleton."_ Robot! KILLER robot! Yes, she was his protector, but she represented the continuation of something horrible in his life. If anything, he should be glad to see her go! He stared into her eyes...

And... god, she was so fucking beautiful. How could machines create something like that when they knew nothing of what made humans tick? They knew nothing of the sex-drive, anything like that, how could she exist? Why would Skynet make something like her? The T-800 had been huge, imposing...Larger than life! Cameron was so _real _at times. All at once he was sure that he'd rather have Derek Reese leave with his mother instead of her. She-

He resisted the urge to clap his hands over his head and yell something repulsive. He cleared his throat. Draining his mind of these...thoughts, these things that made him shudder every time he considered them, he looked up to Cameron. She had said something.

Evidently she knew he hadn't heard, for she opened her mouth to repeat herself. He cut her off with his own words, "Kidding, and yeah, I'm..." He sighed and brought himself back to his other neuroses: Mom was leaving for a week. He was damned if he knew what he'd do without her. "It's just a change is all. I guess I'm just used to having her around all- I mean, most of... the time." He nodded and said, "Yeah."

He wouldn't have said anything like that to Sarah, or Derek for that matter. Cameron's very nature made it easy to confide in her when she wasn't acting totally spooky. After all, she was a machine. She wasn't an accurate judge of human feelings, it was only data to her. If she happened to tell Sarah about this, no matter then. It would be better than him blurting it out at her, all emotional.

Right now, though, Sarah was so far off in his mind, it wasn't even funny. He needed a way out of this conversation before he did something stupid again.

Cameron, considering none of this, said, "The trip should only take two weeks maximum."

"I know..." he stepped forward and moved past her, wanting to draw back the blinds. Outside, Sarah was just finishing up with the car. John nearly jumped as Cameron's hand stroked the nape of his neck as he went by. He whirled around and stared, his eyes very wide. His cupped hands hovered above his chest. His heart fluttered uncontrollably.

"Why'd you-" he began, his voice rising with confusion and...something else.

Cameron took his right hand and brought in between them and looked down at it. John's mouth fell open in shock. She caressed it softly with her thumb and she stepped forward, "Relax, John."

He knew he should have given her a severe look, that he should have jerked his hand away and acted all taken aback, for whatever reason. How dare she insult him that way, with her fake affections!

Instead of doing any of those things, or thinking any of those thoughts, he just stood there and processed this in silent wonderment. She looked at him straight. There wasn't anything deceiving in her right now, she was all too human in this moment.

Of himself, his thoughts consolidated and focused themselves on that image of Cameron shooting him through the head. That was a representation of his doubts with her. He could ignore his doubts.

"Cam, " he said, his voice low. There was something in his tone that was unidentifiable even to him. It could be horror. And it could be wanting. "What're you doing?"

"Comforting you," she said matter-of-factly. Those words rang in his ears with all the force of an explosion. He would have the same reaction a week later when she would say "I'm just making conversation." She let go of his hand and stared directly at him.

"No," he said, shaking his head back and forth, "This is actually pretty uncomfortable." And did it feel right? He didn't know. Did it feel _good_? Yes.

"I read that close contact and reassuring touch helps when a person is sad," she said, quoting again.

"No, I'm...not sad," John said, shaking his head. "I'm just...Look, I don't know-"

She stepped back, "You're lying," she said simply, without any trace of suspicion or insult. She was just stating what she knew to be a fact.

He stared at her and said nothing. He felt guilty again. More precisely, he felt a lot of things; sadness at his mother leaving, lust for the fucking robot, and guilt for lying to that same robot. One could say that he was feeling distinctly overwhelmed, in fact.

"What were we talking about?" he asked helplessly, for lack of anything better to put in. He looked at her pleadingly.

Cameron smiled, showing her teeth. She _never_ did that. She shook her head briefly, "Don't worry about it."

The front door opened. Cameron's face went impassive again --he shuddered at the transformation-- and she went to go speak with Sarah, leaving John to stand there at the window. The shouting of the children outside had diminished to dull roars as their game moved down the road. He shuttered the blinds. John's body shook once with unexplainable force, and he rubbed his forehead absently. He felt somewhat blank. He decided to go see what Derek was up to. As casually as he could, hands in his pockets, hunched very slightly, his head tilted, he started out of the kitchen. One thought stole into his head for a moment as he walked out.

Although he couldn't even begin to guess at what he felt about Cameron, he was _damned_ if he wasn't sure that she was acting this way around him for reasons completely irrelevant to her mission. That she was doing this for...other reasons.

In retrospect, he was glad she was leaving. It would give him time to think clearly and without...distractions.

--------

He found Derek sitting amid a pile of photographs in John's room. More specifically, he was sitting on his bed and peering down at the individual photographs, his face scrunched up in concentration. The photograph of the man in the yellow hat was set aside, along with poor Andy Goode. A red marker lay next to that photograph, as if in preparation for the man's seemingly inevitable fate. The scene was almost an exact copy of the one he'd faced two days ago in his mothers room, sans the many, many guns. Once again, it seemed his uncle couldn't respect anybody's damned property, or privacy.

Derek looked up and gave a brief nod to John, acknowledging his presence. He went back to his photos without saying a thing. It was at this point that, for lack of anything better to really do, John got pissed off.

"Derek," John said, almost quietly.

Derek's eyes drifted up to meet his. His left hand drifted across the bed and grabbed a pill bottle. He worked the cap and shook a pill into his mouth.

"Yep?"

He didn't want to ask "what are you doing?" because it was pretty damned clear what Derek was doing. He stood there for a moment, impotent with fairly passive rage building up within him. Finally he said, "Why did you come in _here?_"

Derek put down one of the photographs and closed his eyes tightly for a moment. He ran his left thumb and index finger across both eyelids and exhaled sharply. Opening his eyes, he looked up at John and said, "Quietest place in the house, John."

"Quiet," John repeated. His voice was still low. Derek nodded. "Guess what?" John said.

Derek's eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"It JUST GOT A LOT FUCKIN' _LOUDER_," John yelled, his voice assuming an almost shrill pitch at the end of his outburst. "Get the hell out of my room!" Rubbing his forehead, he pointed at the door for emphasis.

He was hoping Derek would say something apologetic, or that he'd be surprised and/or dismayed at John's anger. He didn't even flinch. His eyes just got narrower and narrower until they resembled tiny slits. John stood there, his hand elevated toward the door. It started wobbling. Derek grumbled something unintelligible and gathered the photos into one pile. He pushed the pile away and patted the side of the bed; a definite "come here" motion. Derek looked up at John, his expression the very definition of "neutral."

John dropped his hand and sighed, "Get out..."

Derek's eyes flared open for a moment, quiet disdain and a measure of disgust evident in them. He turned and took the pile from the bed. He got up, wincing slightly, and moved past John. John stood there staring at the bed, and he realized very quickly that he'd acted like a petulant six year old. He'd been a bit disturbed when Derek had been in his mothers room, sure, but his own living space? Nothing more than a commodity for information gathering? Without his consent? He couldn't stand it. He wouldn't have reacted if that...thing with Cameron hadn't happened, he knew that. He had to collect his thoughts.

"Derek..." he said to his uncles retreating back. He didn't answer, and John heard his footfalls getting further and further away. John was staring forward at his bed, unable to look back. He heard low, slightly concerned voices from the other room.

He walked forward and flopped down on his bed, quickly reached forward and pulled his remaining pillow toward him. He slapped it over his head and stared into the darkness for a long time.

------------

It didn't take long for Sarah to finish up with Cameron and transfer to her next line of business; the yelling. Unless her son had developed an imaginary friend in the last couple of hours, Derek had probably been the target of all that. That struck Sarah as odd. Although Derek came off as (relatively) cold and business-like with everyone else, John didn't necessarily hold any grudges against him. That was probably because he wanted to maintain that illusion that he couldn't afford anger or disapproval at one of his own family members. He'd learn better than that when the time came.

Given what she'd heard, John exploded at her brother-in-law for intruding in his room. Perfectly natural for him to be angry at something like that. Sarah hadn't been kidding when she said she'd hurt Derek if she caught him tinkering with guns in her bedroom, after all. She was a bit more concerned with the fury in his voice. John was usually rather stoic and resigned about these sorts of things, and he wasn't usually _that_ possessive, so something was obviously eating at him.

Sarah walked into the living room to find Derek settling gingerly onto the couch. The photographs that seemed to be surgically attached to him since yesterday night were in his right hand. A tiny splotch of dried blood was visible on his shirt. She scowled briefly at that as she walked in; blood didn't come out well in the laundry, as she'd unfortunately discovered a few hours after Derek had been shot by the Triple-Eight. Derek laid himself down and stared expectantly at Sarah.

"Thought we talked about privacy the other day," she said with quiet reproach.

Derek only rolled his eyes and said, "I remember. You threatened to punch me." He put down the stack of photos, drawing a raised eyebrow from Sarah.

"Then what were you doing in there?", she asked.

Derek side-stepped the question, "I hope you realize...that in four years, 'privacy' will be a word without meaning?"

"I realize, Derek. And I realize we can stop _that_ from being a reality if we stop _it._"

He didn't need clarification on "it." Everyone in the house, human and robot, knew what "it" was. "Uh huh," was all Derek said.

Sarah decided to leave it at that. Derek's side-stepping of the original question showed he wasn't going to budge. She'd talk to John about the outburst personally, it wouldn't do to talk about that with Derek behind the kid's back. Instead she explained the current situation and the assumed trip Sarah and Cameron would be embarking on within (hopefully) an hour. Derek looked pensive, as he oftentimes did, when she finished.

"You shouldn't go," he said after a minute. Before she could respond he pressed on, "Two week trip is two weeks too many, Sarah, and this lead is tenuous at best. It'd be a waste."

"And this guy can end up being the creator of T-1," Sarah retorted, pulling the designation out of the air.

To her surprise, Derek scoffed, "Those things are pussies. Coupl'a blasts from a Westinghouse M95A1 to their processor and they..." he looked at Sarah and frowned, sensing her confusion.

She smiled bemusedly, "They actually make a T-1?"

Derek shrugged, "It ran on treads and was about as big as a small car. And I doubt this guy is its daddy."

"Tin Miss had to have him in her files for a reason."

Derek's eyes darkened. He cocked his head up and stared at Sarah for a moment before saying, "That thing is a liar. They kill and they mimic other people. It's all they do."

_All they do._ Ever since Sarah had seen Cameron for the first time, her definition of the boiler plate Terminator was becoming more and more strained. She sighed. She wasn't gonna sit here and argue, wasting time. She cast a look toward the kitchen. The TV was on. Probably Cameron. Footsteps somewhere in the kitchen, close to the living room. Maybe John.

"I'm not going to argue about this, we're going to check it out and you're-"

"That won't be necessary."

Sarah and her brother-in-law looked up as Cameron walked into the room from the kitchen. She didn't have the duffel bag Sarah had told her to get from below the sink, the one filled with eight boxes of nine millimeter ammunition, four clips of 5.56x45mm ammo for the M16, and two Pringle tubes.

Sarah's shoulders slumped in the general direction of the female Terminator and she tilted her head forward, "Excuse me?"

"I said it wouldn't be necessary," Cameron repeated.

"Just tell us why!" Derek groaned from behind Sarah.

"Daniel Forsythe is giving a presentation on modern robotic applications at Campo de Cahuenga High School on Friday, 12:45 PM. It's part of a Los Angeles technological awareness program which also involved the chess tournament Andy Goode was involved in."

Sarah blinked at that and said, --stupidly, she later reflected-- "Meaning..." Behind her, Derek exhaled sharply in revelation.

"He's here."


	4. Misdirection

**Flight is Right**

Disclaimer: This story is fictional. Any and all references to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental, unless, of course, it is intended! If I DO make references to persons, whether alive or dead, rest assured that I don't own whatever happens to be their intellectual property.

Chapter Four: Misdirection

"Fifty...six...fifty...seven...eight...fifty nine..."

Pushups were a good way of clearing your head, especially if you felt too exhausted to even think afterward. John Connor had a lot of endurance, but he was more than willing to push himself above his usual limit of a hundred today. He used to exercise every morning before he'd moved in with Charley. He'd only recently started over again.

John was outside in the backyard, wearing sweat pants and a plain white tee-shirt. Although it was an early February Sunday morning, the weather was fair, albeit windy. The sky was almost completely cloudless, the sun shining with its constant brilliance. The trees surrounding the sides of the yard swayed back and forth as the wind flew against them. The swings nearby creaked as they swung. John could hear distant honks of traffic in the distance, along with the occasional train honks and almost regular police sirens. All of it was background noise, falling into the norm of his regular hearing. If it all came to a halt he'd probably say "what was that?

"Seventy two..."

John always muttered things to himself whenever he was alone, like right now. It didn't help him concentrate on what he was doing --though sometimes it helped with math homework-- and he didn't do it just to hear his voice --though sometimes it was comforting. -- He usually did it just to make sure he was by himself. If he talked to himself, he assumed someone else would answer if they were around. By the silence that mostly followed, he could reassure himself that he was, indeed, alone. Sometimes it was important to just be by yourself, in your own safe space. To collect your thoughts.

His mom didn't appreciate things like that, or at least John thought she didn't. If he ever told her that he was sure she'd reprimand him, telling him that being around other people and sharing your thoughts with them was good training for his role as Leader of the Tech-Com Future Resistance Against the Machines™. He smirked to himself as he added the obligatory _TM_ sign to the back of that phrase. It helped soften the seriousness of the idea of him becoming a messiah.

His mom wouldn't like that sort of thinking either. He pushed himself up and quickly lowered his body down again, muttering "ninety...eight..."

He grunted as he reached one hundred; and kept going. He was feeling pretty tired already, but he wanted that feeling of exhaustion that would clear his torrential mind of thought. He'd be blank.

Yesterday wouldn't go down as one of his finest. Aside from getting completely blown away (and...something else) by Cameron's behavior, exploding unnecessarily at Derek (his uncle had been generally icy to him since then), and laying in bed for a few hours... he'd found out that the root of all of it, Sarah's leaving for at least two weeks, wasn't going to be happening after all. He'd felt a lot of relief at first, then anger at himself for acting like a douche bag to everyone as a result of his earlier fears. Mostly he felt relief. Anyway, no one had brought him up on how he'd acted, which he supposed was a mixed blessing.

Another mixed blessing was Cameron staying as a result of Daniel Forsythe's prudent choice of high school for his presentation. Not only had she given him a bad vibe due to her role in his dream the other night, she'd come off as...intimate yesterday, for lack of better word for it. Her smiling, touching him, comforting him...He knew that this was part of her learning how to blend in better, but it was like she was sending him mixed messages all the time, like a chess opponent who constantly shifts his strategy. She could be cold and blunt one minute, then...something else the next. Did she want him to like her? How was that possible?

He'd felt that her leaving would give him time to process all this without distraction and give him insight on what exactly it was that she was doing and how to respond to it while keeping it quiet at the same time. He just couldn't do that when she was around to confuse him like this. He blinked as sweat rolled down his face. His entire body was shaking now, heavy with the exertion of exercise as well as emotion. And something else.

"Hundred...thirty seven..."

It never occurred to John that Cameron _wasn't_ actually trying to confuse him and was doing...something else. He felt like he was about to collapse. He exhaled and his body trembled as he inhaled a second later.

_Something else._ What was that something else?

"Hundred...forty."

His arms gave out from under him like support beams collapsing and he fell face forward onto the ground, arms stretched out ahead of him. His body shook gently as he breathed rapidly. Sweat rolled across his back and felt almost like ice as it cooled under the wind. He sighed as he moved his head back and forth, liking the gentle feeling of grass brush against his face. His right hand idly plucked a few blades out from their roots as he dragged his left up to stroke the bangs of damp hair along his forehead. His legs felt like jelly, and he was content to remain motionless.

Completely exhausted, wanting only to regain his breath and simply lay there on the grass, John felt blank. It was almost similar, yet different, to the feeling of afterglow. The thoughts of what had been bothering him over the past week or so, the stress of trying to find the Turk, Derek's sudden introduction into his life, Cameron...His mom...Forsythe...it all drained from him as if someone had pulled the plug out of a water filled bath. He felt pure. He rested there without thinking for a few minutes as his breath slowly returned to him, dancing between consciousness and sudden, abrupt sleep.

He turned his head slightly so that his cheek lay against the grass. He let his eyes flutter open, and he stared around the yard, watching the grass ripple like lake water under the wind, and the tree branches jerk and sway gently. He looked at the shed several yards away. He shut his eyes again and let his head sink further against the grass.

A few seconds later, his eyes shot open. They darted toward the shed again. There were two rocky slabs arranged against the side of the structure, and they definitely hadn't been there the last time he'd been out here.

He remained where he was for a few seconds, gathering his strength and pulling his scattering thoughts back into their rightful places. After a moment, he pushed himself up using his forearms. They shuddered and threatened to fall out from under him, but held as he dragged his legs forward and bent them. He slowly rose and straightened himself. He paused for a moment to push a few locks of hair out of the way of his eyes --he desperately needed his hair cut soon-- and started walking toward the shed.

It took about ten seconds for him to make the trip and he stopped in front of the slabs. They were curved near the top like tombstones and were just about featureless, no cracks, signs of fraying or chips. There were, however, inscriptions near the top of both stones, written in a language John couldn't begin to understand.

**Дмайтри Шипков Мария Шипков**

John stared blankly at the inscriptions for a moment, trying to jog his memory --which was just about out of juice right now-- for the name of this language he was reading. He'd seen it a lot during the eighties in Latin America, among the partisans. After a minute of thinking, his tongue just about hanging off his chin in concentration, he gave up and resolved himself to asking Cameron. He wouldn't worry about these things right now, they seemed completely harmless. He looked away, not noticing that the soil here had been overturned recently.

He needed a shower, at any rate, so now was a good time to go back inside. He felt a nice sort of satisfaction as he started for the back door, thinking back to how blissful that feeling of emptiness had been. He could barely get himself to remember what it was like. If he could be like that all the time, not a care in the world, he had a feeling he'd be much happier.

--

Derek Reese grunted as he passed the bathroom door, hearing the shower running. He resisted the urge to simply put paid to privacy for the sake of relieving himself. He absently scratched the side of his head as he reminded him once again that people appreciated the finer things in life these days, and that one of those luxuries was privacy. He sighed. He'd gone over the same "this shit won't matter in less than FOUR years" schpeal about a trillion times in his head, and out loud to the Connor's, and it wasn't getting any more effective in convincing them to change their ways. He pushed the thought out of his head; anything that reminded him of post-Judgement day was something he preferred to relegate to the far-off corners of his mind.

The truth was, he liked living in the past. Things were much, much better here. There were problems of course, but they meant nothing to Derek. The human race had it good, as far as he was concerned. Every day he was thinking less and less about his mission and more and more about how to enjoy this time he had. That didn't mean that Connor's assignment to him wasn't paramount in his mind, because it was. He was just...distracted all the time, checking everything out, every tree and clean white building, seeing if everything he'd known and taken for granted as a child was just a hallucination or if all of this had actually, truly existed. And it was even better than he'd remembered.

He liked this. He'd do anything to maintain its purity.

He knocked on the bathroom door. He heard John yell "What's up?" from inside.

Derek glowered a bit as he heard the teenagers voice. It felt intensely familiar to the John he'd known for most of his life, and yet it was different at the same time. He'd be lying if he said he liked Supreme Commander John Connor of the future. The man was as cold and calculating a bastard as they came, stupendously intelligent, and boy did he know how to nurse and hold a grudge. This John made him feel guilty for hating the other one. This one was confused, he was like a floating feather in the wind, unsure of the direction he'd be taking next. The only thing he and his future self shared was the fact that they both knew how to hold a grudge, though this John held them for admittedly less mature reasons. They still hadn't really spoken to each other since John's outburst yesterday, to name an example.

"It's nothing." Derek spoke into the door. After a moment he added, "Sorry."

Silence from the other end. Water continued to splash on the floor of the shower stall. Finally, John said, "Ok," in a low, barely audible voice. Derek rolled his eyes and continued on through the house. He found Sarah Connor waiting for him in the living room, a cell phone in her hand, and car keys were in the other. Derek frowned. Sarah wasted no time, walking over and pressing the phone into his hands.

"Dial the number I showed you, if you need help just call John," the keys jangled in her hands and she started for the door. "I'll be back in an hour."

Derek glared, "I can handle this thing fine, I had two of em' when I was fifteen. But, uh... why can't you do it?" He stared at the keys, "Where are you going?"

She raised an eyebrow, "Super market."

Derek slapped himself mentally, "Oh. Uh. Alright."

Sarah rolled her eyes, smiling theatrically. She whirled around and fast-walked through the kitchen door. Even when going shopping, she moved with a purposefulness that Derek had only heard about in legends. Although the real thing was obviously a lot less impressive than what she'd been made out to be, her determination got you wanting to do things. Without even realizing it, he was pressing the buttons on the phone, quickly remembering the phone number he'd been given. He heard the jeep start up and then drive away.

Derek hit "call" and brought the phone up to his ear. It felt a little awkward, as he'd been used to a more sleek design in 2011, but it wasn't too bad. The main differences between the cell-phones of 2007 and 2011 was that the newest thing was "watch-screens" which let you see the person you were talking to via the main screen.

A few seconds passed as the dial-tone droned on. Derek cast a quick glance around the room for Cameron Phillips and nodded to himself when he confirmed that he was alone. Fucking thing creeped him the hell out, as everyone in the house was abundantly aware at this point. Not that they cared.

"Campo de Cahuenga High School, how may I help you..." a tired woman's voice said.

Derek attempted to manage the perkiest voice he could muster: no easy task for him, "Hi there, I was wondering when this, uh...robot presentation was going to be held."

Typing on a computer on the other end. The woman sighed; a low, almost inaudible sound, "It should say in the newsletter, right above the mention of the upcoming Pizza Day."

Derek rolled his eyes. His parents had never read those damned things; no one ever did except for Sarah, it seemed. She was meticulous to the point of being obsessive. "I lost it," he responded, trying to act as friendly as possible. It really wasn't working.

Another sigh, and this time it wasn't even concealed. More typing, sounded distinctly..._vicious_ now. Derek smirked to himself right before she intoned, "Tuesday, 12:45 PM. Anything else?"

Derek's smirk disappeared as if someone had wiped it off his face with a clean rag. Whoa. "Tuesday?" he asked, now thoroughly confused, "I thought it was Friday."

The dignitary was quiet; obviously steaming with mute rage at Derek's theatrical incompetence. "No, sir. Tuesday. Good day."

She hung up. _Bitch._

"That's odd."

Derek literally jumped an inch in the air. He whirled around, his right hand reaching immediately for a non-existant pistol on his belt. It took a distinct measure of will for him to arrest the motion before the metal bitch interpreted it as a sign that he'd gone nuts. He stared at Cameron Phillips, who stood several feet away from him. He hadn't heard her come in, but it was evident that she'd been listening the whole time with her advanced hearing.

He glared at her for a long moment, unsure of whether he should look on at her with naked hatred or fear. Maybe both, if he could manage it. She freaked him the hell out, not only with the fact that she was built for things other than combat, but... He shook his head. He refused to think about what he'd seen the other night. Maybe he'd been dreaming. Just remembering it threatened to bring tears to his eyes, he'd been so shaken.

He found his voice, "No shit."

She cocked her head at that, probably thrown by the non-sequitor nature (as she was aware) of the statement. Frowning, she said, "I just ran a search on the technological awareness program. Their website states that, among the events being held, this is going to happen...on Wednesday, 1:30 PM."

Derek blinked. "How can so many people get the date wrong for this thing?"

"I don't know," Cameron replied. "They may be deliberately trying to mislead us."

"_Us? _You mean, _us_ as in everyone living in this house, us?"

Cameron shook her head, "No, not really. It's more likely that they're trying to decrease the accessibility of the lecture."

Derek said nothing. The gears in his head were turning a mile a minute. Tin Miss' presumption struck him as pretty likely, given that...

"It may be connected to fears regarding Andy Goode's murder," Cameron said, finishing Derek's thought. He nodded in silent agreement.

"What now, then?" he asked, not really expecting a good answer. He hated it when things got unnecessarily complicated, but he'd learned to live with it. You had to when you lived most of your life the way he had.

She shrugged, "We talk to people."

--

John moved the pawn straight ahead, dropping it into place with the staggered formation he'd started creating. The pawns now resembled a vee on the chess board, preparing to clash against his opponent. Said opponent was a bespectacled Junior sitting across from him named Eric Dent. Eric was analyzing the board intently, musing over his next move. John leaned back in his chair, knowing his pawns wouldn't get much done other than keeping the guy's attention on trying not to lose his more valuable pieces. It was an intimidation tactic. He knew he'd take casualties, but they were acceptable losses for the set-up of his attack on the king.

Eric glanced up at John and down again quickly, obviously not enjoying the smug look John had allowed to play over his face. He was a fairly conservative player, John had seen, moving his pawns and more valuable pieces up laboriously, trying to get a feel for John's strategy before launching an attack. John raised an eyebrow as he moved a rook one square to the left. John moved one of his pawns forward and knocked out another pawn. Eric responded by removing that piece and replacing it with a bishop. John moved up a pawn. Eric moved the rook he'd used earlier, moving it to the side. The guy really didn't like taking chances. John moved another pawn up in an attempt to encircle the bishop. And so it went on.

They were outside the high school, at a table reserved for chess games. People were walking all around, talking. Most sounded tired; weekends did that to you. A lot were holding their hands on their foreheads and squinting a lot. Some groaned about headaches. It was the aftermath of a party John hadn't known about, probably. He wondered what those were like. He turned slightly to look around. He didn't see Cameron anywhere; she'd been gone for a few minutes. Hopefully it was for a good reason. He turned back to Eric.

"Hey..."

Eric's eyes flitted up to John, "Yeah?" He seemed a bit surprised, for whatever reason. He definitely looked annoyed.

John sighed inwardly and pressed on, "You hear about this robot thing?"

Eric stared for a moment, his eyes narrowed in confusion. He absently moved a piece. John countered it just as absently and stared at the board. The pieces had dwindled rather fast. Blitzing the enemy would do that. Eric was moved his king around nervously.

After they'd found out that apparently _no one_ knew when Forsythe was supposed to appear, Sarah had recruited John and Cameron to probe around the school and see which day turned up the most as the probable date. John was also supposed to call in very quickly if it turned out to be today.

As of now, the questioning hadn't been very fruitful; John got blank stares a lot of the time, much like the one he was receiving right now. He went straight to the main office at the beginning of the day and got three different answers from the receptionists there, which inadvertently touched off an argument. He'd slowly backed out, needless to say.

Eric's eyes suddenly widened in remembrance, "Oh, you mean the program thing?" John nodded, "Yeah, my tech teacher told me it was on Wednesday, and I forget what time."

John nodded, offering a forced smile. So far Wednesday was the least popular choice among the kids he'd spoken to. They all seemed to think it was Friday, given the news report they'd seen on this thing. Eric's answer wasn't that helpful. He said, "Thanks, you're a big help."

"No prob..." Eric muttered, staring at the chess board. He obviously didn't like what he saw: his king was being threatened at nearly every point, and he'd be in zugzwang before long. He moved his remaining knight to capture John's last pawn. It seemed like a last hurrah. John dispatched the knight with a bishop and started laying siege to Eric's remaining pieces.

As he waited for Eric to make his move, John let himself drift away from the board. His interest had already basically collapsed once he knew Eric couldn't tell him anything more. He started to scan the area for people he knew. Maybe Morris would know, although John really doubted he was the techno-type. He caught sight of the other teenager sitting alone near Cameron and John's table. John had to smile a bit at Morris' stubbornness. Cameron hadn't shown the least bit of interest (if anything she viewed him as an obstacle to quickly push out of the way if danger came down) in him, but there he was, still trying to get her attention. John sweeped the rest of the area silently and frowned when he didn't see Cheri Westin.

His mouth fell open a bit as he thought about her. He would be lying to himself if he said he didn't like her. She was pretty, and bright enough to boot, a solid combination in his book. She had a nice, deliberate way of talking that spoke of her matureness. On the other hand, she was relentlessly aloof and didn't keep many friends. She never talked that much and seemed distinctly uncomfortable around anyone besides John, and she mostly shied away from him as well. Still, he was glad to have anyone to...well, crush on as long as it wasn't the robot.

John blinked at the easiness with which he considered liking Cameron in a romantic way. Just hypothetically, though. Not even hypothetically. Of course not. He didn't consider it. No.

Right? John moved a piece, he wasn't sure which one. His hands were on auto-pilot, seeming to know instinctively how the game was progressing. Cameron appeared from behind a corner and advanced quickly toward Morris, probably eager to try out a few phrases she'd picked up. John stared at her as she walked. She seemed less mechanical every day whenever she was around people, taking on their mannerisms and posture. Her hips moved back and forth gently as she walked forward. All calculated within a split second in her chip; _move this way, talk that way, give off impression of interest. Be vague, attractive. _Of itself, John's heart rate was accelerating. Cameron sat down and said something to Morris. As he responded, she turned her head and looked in John's direction. She was all business as she recognized that he was alright, not in any form of danger. Then she grinned and waved her hand at him.

He looked away quickly, his breath suddenly a bit ragged. His eyes fell on Cheri Westin, who was just sitting at a table near Morris and Cameron's. Upon seeing her, she saw him as well. She smiled and nodded a few times in recognition. She moved her bag down off the bench and onto the grass, making room. She expected him to come over. John's eyes flitted over to Cameron; she was still looking at him, still smiling. She was waiting for recognition. He nodded in both girls directions. They both went back to what they were doing, equally unaware that he'd silently answered two people. Satisfied.

John was getting hard. He exhaled sharply; he'd been holding his breath. Holy christ.

With a sigh of exasperation, Eric overturned his king, conceding. "You're fucking good, Baum." He leaned over the table to begrudgingly shake John's hand. John took it and shook without thinking. He smiled toward Eric as the older boy got up to leave, but his heart wasn't in it.

John wasn't thinking about chess anymore.

--

Cameron Phillips eyeballed John from across the field as the older human, identified as Eric Dent, age 17, Junior grade of Campo de Cahuenga High School got up and started walking in the other direction, toward another table populated by several men. By Eric's slumped posture and downcast eyes, he'd been defeated in a chess game with John. That was why Cameron was somewhat confused. Generally she associated victory with elation and joy on the side of the winning party, in this case John Connor. This was usually characterized by a smile, eyes being more dilated than they usually were, and sometimes laughter. John was not doing any of those things. His demeanor and facial expression characterized embarrassment, mixed with pensiveness.

That was all Cameron was able to discern from this range. If closer, she'd be able to detect a bit more. Right now, though, John was safe, and Cameron had other mission priorities besides ascertaining John's neuroses, no matter how much she wanted to. It just seemed like something she ought to do.

Morris was discussing the supposed fact that the employees running the catering services inside the high school despised him and wanted him terminated. He supported this supposition with the fact that these employees erroneously gave him spaghetti when he'd asked for tacos. Cameron extrapolated on his words and determined a probability of 0.12 percent that the lunch staff wanted to terminate him. She cocked her head toward him.

"That sucks," she said. She picked up the nearby styrofoam cup and drank some a carbonated drink popularly known as "Pepsi" from a straw.

"I know!" Morris agreed. He looked down at the spaghetti and forked some into his mouth. Chewing for a moment, he looked considerate. "Eh, it's not too bad, actually."

Cameron looked over and found Morris staring at her as well. She noticed that his eyes drifted quickly away from her chest area and up to her eyes. He smiled, somewhat disjointedly. She smiled back to him, "Hear anything cool?" she asked.

Morris shrugged, "Haven't heard of any murals popping up."

It took Cameron a half-second to realize he was talking about the frescos that had appeared on the walls of the school interior shortly before the suicide of Jordan. "I thought people stopped talking about that," she observed.

Morris frowned, "Sure, they stop talking about it. Doesn't mean they forget, y'know?"

Cameron imitated Morris' earlier shrug, almost completely mimicking the motion, "No. I guess not." She decided it would be more efficient to cut straight to the main subject of her earlier question, "I heard about a robot presentation."

'

Morris nodded almost at once, "Me too, it's supposed to be three days from now."

"Really?" Cameron replied, "Who told you?" Her smile disappeared, and her face went blank as she awaited the answer.

Morris raised an eyebrow. "I just heard it from my history teacher. I think it was an announcement." He tilted his head, giving her a sidelong look, eyebrows somewhat elevated. His accelerated heart rate suggested underlining fear that she was angry at him.

She quickly readjusted her expression, grinning at him and lowering her eyebrows somewhat to give the impression of subtle attraction, "Thanks." She looked over at John.

Morris, now reassured, followed her glance and looked back toward the chess table. John was getting up and heading toward a table occupied by several men and women, student Cheri Westin, aged 16, sophomore grade among them. Cameron's HUD suddenly flashed "system anomaly." Seemingly of itself, Cameron's eyebrows had lowered considerably, her mouth had set itself into the ghost of a frown. She was glaring without having...

She let herself glare and reset the system to disregard such things as anomalous. She started going over the likeliest reasons for why she'd reacted thusly. Four seconds went by and, after not coming up with a satisfactory answer, she terminated the procedure. She would commit more time to figuring it out later.

"Damn, your bro's stubborn."

"Yes, he is damn stubborn," Cameron agreed, still glaring.

Morris shook his head and rolled his eyes. Cameron extrapolated that he was referring to the fact that Cheri Westin came from a rather restrictive family and was limited in her social maneuverability. John looked briefly in their direction as he walked over and then sat down next to Cheri. Cameron stared over for a moment before turning back to Morris. She assumed a normal expression.

"Didn't know your brother plays chess," Morris said. The spaghetti lay half-finished on his tray, and he was looking intently at her. It was clear that now he wanted to hold an extended conversation.

Cameron assigned her left ear auditory systems to extend their range so she could pick up on John's conversation, while squelching voice patterns that did not match his or Cheri's. In order to avoid a lax, sedated expression on her face as she processed their conversation while also maintaining her own with Morris, she relegated the data to her memory for later review. Close review.

"Yes, he's very good."

"I mean, I just didn't take him for the chess type. Doesn't seem like something he'd do."

Cameron smiled, "You don't know him that well."

--

**PLAY-BACK, AUDIO FILE #67. REF: PRIME/SUB-PRIME CORRESPONDENCE. **

**PLAY-BACK**

"Hey."

"Hi John."

_four second interval_

"Lunch any good today?"

"Average, y'know how it is."

(Laughter) "Yeah. I usually just let my mom pack lunch."

(Laughter) "She must care for you a lot."

_five second interval_

"I guess so. Ah...Hey, did you, uh, want to talk about something?"

_two second interval_

"I guess. I mean, I don't mean to pry...you don't have to answer. You know..."

"Yeah?"

"Is your sister alright? I mean, I must sound like a gossip, but sometimes...forget it."

"How she acts, you mean?"

"Yeah. Like she's...I dunno. Is she alright?"

"We had a tornado a few years back. She hasn't been all that well since then, y'know."

"She follows you around a lot."

_three second interval_

"Um...Yeah. I guess. I mean..."

_eight second interval_

"I'm sorry, John. Forget I asked."

"No, it's fine. It was hard on all of us. She's...I almost got hurt, like really bad. She just wants to protect me."

"I wish I had your family."

(Scoff) "Yeah right."

"No, really. They must care for you a lot."

_five second interval_

"John?"

"Um... Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Hey, uh, Cheri...you hear of, uh anything going on later? Like a lecture, something like that?"

_two second interval_

"The technological awareness program?"

"That's it."

"Wednesday, 12:45."

_three second interval_

"You sure?"

"Positive, John. Really."

_two second interval_

"Well, alright then...thanks. Hold on. What the hell do you want?"

_ten second interval, interspersed with-_

**Priority switch: Auditory systems to encompass all voice patterns, effective immediately. Minimizing range zone. Narrowing.**

**Sub-Prime entry. **

"It's alright, I was just about to go!"

"Dude, I don't think you fucking get it. You stay the fuck away."

"Michael-"

"Shut up. You, get outta here."

"You're not the boss of me, dickhead."

_**IMPACT NOISE. PHYSICAL VIOLENCE DETECTED, PRIME SUBJECT THREATENED.**_

_**ACTION; EVALUATE. SECONDARY PRIORITIES RESCINDED. SWITCHING TO COMBAT MODE. TERMINATE THREAT IF NECESSARY.**_

--

John's head swung back around toward Cheri as the guy -- Michael, he guessed -- punched him. Cheri stared at him in shock, her mouth agape. He mostly felt the shock of the blow rather than any real pain; guy didn't have that great an arm. He quickly checked himself for blood and his fingers came away with nothing. He started breathing rapidly, feeling the adrenaline surge into him as he turned to look at Michael. He didn't think about why he'd been punched in the first place, and he didn't care. He wanted to hit the bastard.

"Now listen," Michael began, bending over. "Go. Away."

"Fuck you," John spat, and started pushing himself up off the table.

Michael got up and delivered a kick to John's midsection. He flopped back against Cheri and yelled out in pain, feeling the shock vibrate from his abdomen and throughout his body. John's teeth clenched down hard and his eyes widened with the jolt of pain.

"Michael?!" Cheri screamed.

John pushed himself up and swung his legs around the bench. He stood up and stared at Michael.

Michael stared at him coldly as he got up, his head tilted slightly. The people immediately around the table had gone silent. John gave the guy a side-long glance. Michael was just a bit shorter than he was. His face was bony and somewhat narrow, with brown hair reaching down to his equally brown eyes. His mouth was set into a stoney glare. He wore a black-colored ring on his left ear. John stood directly across from him.

Michael lowered his head a bit, as if attempting to parley, "If you don't get outta here I'll make sure you don't walk again." John merely nodded.

He bent forward quickly and lashed out with his right hand, balled into a tight fist, striking Michael in the crotch without warning.

Well, that had been his intention. Michael actually swung his whole body to the left, avoiding the blow and bringing his knee up to smash into John's outstretched arm. John cried out in pain as the strike connected. He clenched his teeth tightly and lashed out with his left arm and brought down his right to form a grip around Michael's leg. John pulled the leg forward, causing Michael to stumble and fall with a startled yelp. Seizing on this, John let go and grabbed the back of Michael's head. He brought his knee up and jabbed it into his stomach. Michael yelled in pain. Finally, John quickly swung himself behind Michael and he shoved his opponent's head downward, smashing it against the wooden bench. Blood splashed up from Michael's nose, and he stumbled back and fell to the grass with a gurgling scream of pain. It took John a moment to ascertain that he was down for the count, and he resisted the urge to kick him in the side of the head.

The whole exchange took less than ten seconds.

Cameron appeared at the corner of John's vision, practically on top of Michael's prostate form, her arms already reaching out to grab his collar bone. Her face was deadened, utterly blank, the same fixated glare Terminators always wore when they were preparing to try and kill something.

"Cam, hold up," John commanded.

Cameron cast a look down to Michael, who was bleeding profusely from his nose and groaning. She stood there for a moment before letting her arms drop to her sides. She sent a look to John. It wasn't approving.

Cheri sat there for a moment, staring at the scene in mute shock before springing up. She gripped both of John's arms and stared frantically at him, "Are you ok?! Jesus!"

The adrenaline rushed out of John's system all at once, leaving him feeling distinctly cold. Confusion and a slight bit of horror overtook him as he processed this spate of violence directed at him. He couldn't find a single fucking reason for it. He pressed his fingers up to eyebrows, his eyes wide. Cheri's hands were close to his face now, but she didn't do anything. John's teeth chattered a bit as he said, "Uh," he looked down at Michael, gulping, "Yeah. I..." Cheri let go of him and stooped over Michael. The guy was just laying there, unmoving. A few tables down, someone yelled "Dude! Kick-ass!" Cheri stared at Michael for a long moment before looking up at John. She shook her head, her lower lip was trembling slightly, "W-why didn't you just walk?"

John blinked, feeling as if something had just gone completely wrong. "Cheri, what...Who..."

"John," Cheri's voice had assumed the ashen tone it took whenever she was troubled. All of a sudden she became expressionless, her eyes just a bit wide with fear, "Just go. Now. Walk away."

He opened his mouth to speak. Something completely unintelligible spilled out and he shut up. He took a step forward, staring from Michael to Cheri. She looked...concerned for the guy. She was absently stroking his forehead with one hand, her other was fishing around her bag, probably for first aid or a tissue to wipe up the blood. Cameron stepped forward and halted him, "That's an excellent idea."

John knew this guy, he suddenly realized. His name was Michael Oxferod, or something. He'd seen him one day, sitting in John's chemistry seat. He'd been talking in a low voice to Cheri. He'd shoved John on his way out of the class room. Was he nursing a grudge or something?

John stood there, simply staring down, his thoughts scattering in all sorts of different directions for what this was supposed to mean. Cheri didn't even look back up at him.

Michael was her boyfriend. He couldn't see any other reason for all of this.

"Please, John," Cheri said. Her eyes were still fixed to Michael.

John only felt his legs start to take him past Michael and Cheri. He was still staring down at them. He didn't know how he looked or what people were seeing on his face. It could be sadness, it could be bewilderment, could be wanting. It certainly wasn't elation at the fact that he'd whupped the guys ass. He tore his eyes away and walked over to the table where Morris was sitting, staring wide-eyed at him as he approached. John managed a tight, "oh well" sort of smirk. Cameron fell into place behind him, her head turned tightly toward Michael. She wouldn't allow him to come under attack again.

John sat down and stared off past Morris' head, off into space. He registered nothing. He was on the brink of simply bursting with negative, confused emotion. He felt like yelling "what the hell just happened?" at the top of his lungs. He held the side of his head with his left hand and leaned on the table. He shut his eyes tightly.

Morris sent a look to Cameron. He looked just about ready to rain congratulations on both their heads, for whatever reason.

Cameron was still staring at Michael and Cheri. Michael was slowly getting up with Cheri's help, but it didn't seem as if he wanted to have another go at it. He was glaring. With the air of one making a great concession, she turned back to Morris. She shrugged and rolled her eyes, "Boys," she said.

Morris raised his eyebrows and smirked, "Hey..." he said severely, acting hurt. Chuckling a bit --nervously--, he looked to John and suddenly grimaced, "Hey, hey, are you alright?"

John cocked his head back, trying to smile, "I'm fine. Just...that was sudden," he murmured. As he spoke, he opened his eyes, only to realize that his vision was blurred. His hand darted to his face and came away slightly wet. He hurriedly wiped off his face and tried to smile again, for real this time.

It didn't work. He got up without a word and started for the inside of the building, leaving Cameron and Morris to stare at his back as he walked.


	5. Set the World on Fire

**Flight is Right**

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. 

Chapter Five: Set the World On Fire

"Now, the war had been on for two years at this point, with foreign interest in recognizing the Confederacy increasing every day. Lincoln _had_ the proclamation penned and all written up in his desk, just waiting to be issued. He needed a victory on the field, though, so it would not look like an act of desperation. We went over this yesterday, can anybody tell me exactly _what_ that victory was?"

Two people raised their hands; Cameron Phillips and some kid John didn't know the name of. Another girl. She looked like she was about to burst, she was so sure of herself. John Connor knew the answer too. American History was his favorite class (he liked war segments especially, they were always...useful to him,) but his arm remained exactly where it was; kind of slumped over the desk, hanging off slightly. John's head was currently pressed against the surface of the desk, his eyes closed. He was waiting for the announcement to come. Fights in school weren't exactly things that remained unnoticed; no monitors had been around to watch Michael Oxferod get pummeled, but that didn't necessarily mean that several students wouldn't report it. John was expecting a call over the intercom to come any second now. 

Mr. Bennett, who was hugely fat but undeniably charismatic and pleasant, frowned at the scarcity of answers and selected the second girl, "Yes, Martha?"

"The Battle of Gettysburg?" Martha said, her eyes huge and hopeful. She'd probably studied immensely last night for their upcoming test. When you grind like that in one night, the answers tended to blend together and not make much sense when you got right down to it. The same held true in this case.

"Ah, incorrect," Bennett said, "Gettysburg occurred later in 1863, and was the turning point of the Civil War." Martha looked positively ashen faced and settled back against her chair, looking vaguely depressed, as if her faith in the world had just drained a bit. Meanwhile, Bennett begrudgingly selected Cameron with a wave of his arm.

"The Battle of Antietam, September 17th, 1862. On the side of the Confederacy it was known as the Battle of Sharpsburg," she paused for a moment, as if mulling over whether or not she should divulge even more detail. John continually warned her against such things on the grounds that it made her look like "a freak", so she was probably taking that into consideration too.

Before she could make a decision, Mr. Bennett gladly seized on her answer, "Yes, very good. That was a crucial battle, as I'm sure you all remember --or don't-- in that it prevented the South from penetrating into the North, which also prevented the international community from re-examining its views on Confederate independence, particularly Britain and France..." And he drifted off as he turned back toward the white board, scribbling busily with a marker. 

Someone tapped John on the shoulder, very lightly. John lifted his head up and turned a bit. Two guys sitting diagonally behind him were staring at him, smirking and wide-eyed. The front-most one let out a soft sort of giggle and said, "Did you really get in a fight with Mike Oxferod?"

Cameron's head swung back, staring at the guy. He didn't seem to notice, thankfully. John responded with a short nod, but kept his attention on the guy, expecting another question.

"You beat him up?"

John nodded again, "Yeah. I did."

The guy looked about ready to burst with quiet laughter, shaking his head in mock disbelief. The kid behind him had his eyebrows raised as far as they could go. The guy said, "I can't believe you think that freak is worth the trouble. But hey, to each his own." He giggled and settled back in his seat.

John continued to stare at him in mute fury, his eyes darkening. He didn't want to think about Cheri right now and what had happened. Having this bullshit thrown in his face right now didn't help all that much. He resisted the urge to spring up and launch himself at the smirking prick. The guy seemed to recognize this and seemed somewhat taken aback, perhaps thinking to himself that maybe it wasn't so intelligent to insult a guy who'd recently kicked someone's ass. He flinched back a moment as John suddenly lurched his head forward like a cobra and jerked it back just as quickly. Cameron stirred very noticeably on the edge of John's vision. 

"Ahem. Gentlemen, is there a problem?" Bennett called out to them in annoyance. A bunch of dates and names now filled the white-board. 

"Nope, none at all," John said easily, turning away from the guy, who said in a small voice, "No." John settled back into his seat and leaned forward intently. Bennett raised an eyebrow and looked back to the white-board, frowning. 

"Good, now-"

"I have to use the bathroom." 

Bennett swung his head over to Cameron, who was the one who'd spoken. John also found himself turning toward her as well in mild surprise, thinking _Since when does she-_

The intercom crackled and a woman's voice said, "John Baum to the main office. John Baum to the main office, please." 

A few knowing giggles from the class. Bennett appeared to forget about Cameron's admittedly rude call-out and said, "He's on his way!" He turned to John and pointed towards the door, a faintly exasperated look on his face. 

The intercom snapped off. John bent forward in his seat to grab his back pack, suspecting that he'd be spending the rest of the day in detention. As he did this, Bennett gave Cameron permission to visit the rest room, clearly wanting to get back to the lesson and end the distractions. John and his protector left the class room together and went out into the fairly empty hallway. 

"Convenient timing," John said as he started in the direction of the main office, which was just down the hall. Cameron walked with him; the bathrooms were off in the other direction. He raised an eyebrow. 

"I knew the intercom was about to activate," she explained, "My auditory sensors can pick up static long before humans can."

John folded his lower lip slightly over the rest of his mouth and looked at Cameron, "So you knew I was about to get called in."

She nodded. John sighed, shaking his head a bit. Christ, did she think he was _this_ helpless? "Why? I don't need an escort to the main office."

"I know you don't," she said, striding purposefully in step with John, "I wanted to ask if you were alright."

John rolled his eyes and laughed bitterly. He turned his head to her, "Does it matter? Really, I mean, why do you care?"

Cameron cocked her head and looked thoughtful. Apparently she hadn't considered that either. She was seriously beginning to freak John out with this behavior, it was such a departure from how she generally acted around him. He paused for a moment himself. Just what _was_ her general behavior? He'd known her for less than a month (in his reckoning, time travel not included) and he still couldn't get a grip on her personality. Did machines even have personality? Was that possible? Were all Terminators exactly the same in their mindset when you didn't consider their infiltration adeptness? He'd known the T-800 protector for less than a week and he'd felt as if the thing was his _dad_ for chrissake. Cameron was far more...human than "Uncle Bob" had ever been. 

He was so fucking confused. 

Cameron said, "I just feel that I...should. It's difficult to explain." 

John's eyes widened. He looked away, embarrassed as he said, "Well, I'm fine."

"You cried," Cameron said. She was staring right at him now, and John couldn't meet her glance, not anymore. Did she even mind the fact that he was uncomfortable talking about things like that? "I saw that you were feeling emotional pain, not physical, after you kicked Michael Oxferod's ass. You were sad." 

That last part coaxed a startled chuckle out of John. He looked at her, head slightly bent. He sighed and sobered. Only one thing to really say; "I know."

She nodded evenly and reached out, taking his right hand in her left. She rubbed it with her thumb as they walked, just as she had the other day. John barely resisted this time. He let her do it. She wanted to comfort him. It was something she felt she ought to do. God, what was she... Cameron looked at him and got to the main point; "Why did you cry?"

They were coming up to the main office. John shook his head and sighed, "I...just realized that Mike was Cheri's boyfriend. I guess that's what did it." Even as he spoke he felt his eyes blurring a bit. For some reason he felt it would be appropriate to suddenly just sob into her shoulder or something, but he couldn't. Not with her. How would she interpret that? He was afraid of the answer, so he blinked rapidly, forcing the waterworks back. He stopped, and Cameron stopped with him. It wouldn't do to leave this unresolved because he had to face school punishment. He had to get this out of the way.

"Yes, I extrapolated the same thing, given his reaction to your sitting next to her. He must be very protective." She had a slight softness to her voice as she said that last part.

John tilted his head and frowned, "Well. I...just kinda like her, I guess. It was just...very sudden, y'know, that guy coming in there. I wasn't expecting a thing like that, y'know, getting told off like that. And the punch, all of that, it kind of caught me...off guard." He was almost whispering as he finished, fearing that none of what he'd said made sense. He didn't know any other way to articulate this, though. That revelation had hurt in a way John hadn't even known could exist before this day. He was still in the process of wrapping his mind around it, and he realized that ol' Mike would probably be waiting to stare at him coldly as he walked into the vice-principal's office of something like that. Happy day. 

Cameron looked at him. "You felt as though you were rejected in some way? Unwanted?"

John looked at her with some measure of surprise. He found himself nodding easily with that, and realized that he was only now accepting that he did indeed feel that way. It hurt to admit that, hurt so much that he felt light-headed. Yet at the same time, the simple fact that he'd acknowledged how he felt filled him with an odd sort of warmth. 

"I'm sorry," she said. John's hand was still in hers. She took her other hand and pressed it on top of his, enfolding it. It didn't feel awkward anymore. He felt a bit awed as he realized that she was actually succeeding in comforting him. She understood right away and cut through the bullshit. He nodded a bit more and smiled at her, feeling as though a weight had been lifted, in a way. Maybe he should cry with her. That would feel good, in a way. Maybe in her machine like precision she would understand such a thing more fundamentally than most humans could. One of these days, maybe, if he ever felt this way again. Maybe he wouldn't have to if he could just get his focus back... So confused. 

Cameron tilted her head thoughtfully, "You said you like Cheri."

John nodded again. "Yeah."

"'Like' as in you consider her a friend? Similar to Morris, for example?"

John shook his head, as if it should be obvious to her, "No, the other way."

Cameron shut her eyes a moment and opened them again, her facial features going somewhat blank. She let go of his hand suddenly, "In other words, you would agree that you are sexually interested in her."

John blinked at the rather blunt way of putting that, but she _was_ essentially correct. He rubbed his forehead a bit, "Yeah, Cam, I guess." He looked at her. He frowned now. Something had gone wrong, he'd said something she hadn't wanted to hear. If he had a metaphorical rewind button, he'd be pressing it frantically. He kept his face tightly composed as he looked at her, his smile disappearing abruptly. 

She stared at him for a moment, almost as though she wasn't really looking _at_ him, but _through_ him. There was a brief moment of silence as she just stared. John licked his lips idly and shifted on his feet, feeling really, _really_ fucking uncomfortable as he considered the implications of this. He felt guilty, as though he'd broken something. 

"I'm glad that you're alright," she said in monotone. She wheeled away from him and walked off without another word, her footsteps echoing in the otherwise quiet hall as she went. 

John remained where he was standing, his eyes anchored to the ground, taking all of this in. The whole thing had gotten so...it felt surreal to even think about it. He'd felt comfortable talking to her just a few seconds ago. Had he put her in a false sense of security? Sent the wrong message? Cameron had gone from comforting to suddenly off-put as he admitted that he liked Cheri, that much was clear. Why she reacted this way was another thing altogether. The only reason John could think of was that she was jealous, and he was way, way too overwrought right now with too much shit to even think about that right now. John sighed and pushed open the main office door, silently dreading the fact that he'd shortly be sitting in detention for the rest of the day, free to dwell on _ALL OF THIS_.

----------------

It went down about as well as John expected it would. He had to sit in the vice-principal's office next to Michael, who'd cleaned up his face well enough to give the impression that he hadn't been bleeding profusely only an hour ago. They were both silent as the vice-principal went into a long and complex analogy where two brothers fight over something mundane, and that nothing good ultimately came as a result of their having fought. He de-cried random violence, directing this mostly at Michael, whom he'd rightfully concluded (probably based on witnesses) had started the fight in the first place. Both teenagers answered his questions in curt monosyllables, not looking at one another, not disagreeing over anything. Michael didn't even attempt to lie to cover his own ass. 

After a while they brought in Cheri to give her own account of what had transpired. She was just as dull as John and Michael were, giving a short, factual review of the events. She never once changed facial expressions or showed a hint of emotion as she spoke. The vice-principal thanked her for her time, and she left without saying anything else. Later, John would reflect, he was surprised that he'd been able to maintain his cool through-out the whole thing. He was a positive swirl of emotions during this, and he suspected that Michael was as well, and Cheri. And yet all three of them reacted to this meeting like dead fish. He would learn why later, after school.

The vice-principal had sighed and stood up, circling his desk dramatically, fumbling with something in his shirt pocket. John allowed himself to glower as he did this. Michael remained utterly passive, just staring ahead. Finally, the man turned to them and gave his verdict. Michael was to be suspended for a week for initiating violence. John was to spend the day in detention for retaliating and not seeking aid. He told the two teens that he understood what they were going through, and that jealousy was a natural emotion, but that violence was not the answer. And that had been that. Two minutes later and John was sitting in an average sized room with neutral blue walls and desks arranged alongside, partitioned by wood so the occupants (detainees?) of the room couldn't talk to or see each other.

The teacher in the room laid down an essay question on the desk. John looked up as the piece of paper brushed his arm. He flicked it over and stared down at it. Campo de Cahuenga's staff wanted to know what he thought would be good alternatives for violent behavior in two hundred words or more. They also made it clear that if he didn't do it, the penalty would be another detention the following day after school, obviously to show how nice and forgiving they were. John sighed and looked around in his backpack for a pencil, eventually finding one in two separate pieces. He made do with it. He set the pencil (top half) to paper and it took him about ten minutes to put down a bullshit answer, automatically seizing at the chance to bring his mind away from the completely shitty week he'd had up to this moment, if only for a little while. 

He tried to categorize exactly where this had all started and how he could pull himself out of the depression he was falling into. He couldn't, not really. All of these events had basically accreted into one massive golem sitting on his shoulder, occasionally ripping a chunk of flesh out of him when something happened to make him feel even _more_ shitty. 

What sort of conclusion could he draw from this? Was it going to get worse, or better as time went on? What exactly was happening to him, anyway? It wasn't just the fact that he felt like a sack of crap after realizing that the only girl he'd been interested in _forever_ was otherwise engaged to a territorial prick, it was a lot of OTHER things. Cameron had something to do with it too. This all on top of his destiny, which every day seemed like a run-away train on its way toward hitting him. Christ, he could only take so much before realizing that it wasn't worth it. 

He lowered his head on the desk and resolved to will himself to sleep. He would go nuts if he just sat there and brooded. He was a light sleeper and he didn't snore that much, he knew that from his mom. He'd get away with it. He stared at the desk in semi-darkness, hearing nothing but the hushed whispers of other students nearby. He tried to clear his mind so that he'd have an easier time of going to sleep. He envisioned void, blankness, silence. For some reason, as he stared into this metaphorical void, he imagined two huge glowing balls of red staring right back toward him, and just that brought him back into the cycle. 

He still hadn't succeeded in clearing his mind before he actually fell into an uneasy, fitful sleep. 

--------------

Silence roared in John's ears as he slowly came awake. His head was laying almost flat upon the cool surface of the desk, and that was the first thing he saw as his eyes flickered open. He stared at the wood for a while, letting himself come fully awake. His nostrils twitched as he smelt something burning, like charcoal. It was distant. He couldn't hear anything burning either. All he heard was a faint, continuous buzzing in his ears, which was the sound of silence. There was a certain kind of dryness in his mouth, as if he'd spent too much time in a dusty vacant lot. His arms were folded against his lap, his feet together at the base of the chair. Slowly, he picked up his head.

The wall in front of him wasn't blue, and it sure as hell wasn't neutral. After a fashion you might call it "vaguely blue", but it was more gray and generally battered looking more than anything else. The thing that really opened John's eyes was the massive scorch mark in front of him, reaching out with black tendrils like a spider on the wall. The air was distorted with heat; the blast was recent. John stared at the blackened section of wall for a moment before turning his head towards the rest of the room, noting that both wooden partitions enclosing his desk were now nothing more than splinters on the floor. 

The detention room was in shambles, which was a fairly benign term to use for the destruction John was seeing here. Part of the roof near the northern corner had collapsed all over the teachers desk and several chairs. A ray of light shone through the opening, looking almost solid with the amount of dust particles floating through it. Near that devastation was a mound of rubble which looked, until very recently, to have been on fire. Almost every chair in the room besides John's was contributing to this heap; they were all overturned and blackened, and some were completely broken apart. There were a few skeletons lined up along the rim of the debris, and every skull was cracked and fractured. Some were wearing old, ragged looking clothing, mostly great-coats and some belts. Body armor was prevalent. A few cadavers were headless. Every window was shattered, and there was no glass laying around on the floor. A coat of dust seemed to had enveloped the entire room, making everything appear blurred and unfocused. There was absolutely no noise save for the sound of John turning in his seat. No wind, no distant traffic noises...nothing. 

John stared at the scene in awe for over a minute, his breath coming in slowly and haltingly, if at all. Ok. Just like his dream from the other day, except...now it was real (Dreams are exactly what they are: fantasy worlds you create out of your subconscious, which are indiscernible from reality when they are actually happening. Therefore it didn't occur to John that this, too, was a dream,) and he was in the _middle_ of it. Judgement Day. All he could think about was _where are the machines?_

There was silence as he sat there, staring at the devastation. Only an hour ago he'd been sitting at this desk, trying to go to sleep, and...now this? _This_ wasn't the safest place he could be, he knew that. He had to get out of here. 

With that thought he pushed himself up from his desk and took a few steps forward, watching his footing. Wayward pieces of debris littered the floor. The dust clouding the room almost looked like a solid wall in some places. If he extended his arm a bit in any direction, he would actually feel some physical resistance. He took a shuddering breath, already beginning to wheeze, and started for the door, a look of mute shock on his face. 

That shock turned into terror as he heard, quite suddenly, a distinct rumbling noise almost directly behind him. It was a sound of many metal parts screeching against one another, of buzzing and beeping of systems running and hydraulics. Of parts moving and turning. A crushing noise of rocks and debris being reduced to fine dust under the moving weight of massive treads. One of Skynet's massive death machines was in the area, hunting for prey. John was practically petrified in fear. He turned himself slightly to look out the windows. 

The landscape was as he'd remembered it from his dream. Red, hazy. No plants, destruction all around. It looked positively empty if you discounted the largish vehicle that rumbled busily along about a kilometer off. It was a huge construction of chrome and steel, that was all John could discern from it at first. The exact, though blurry features of the behemoth followed after that. The top of the vehicle was dominated by a rectangular box of elaborate make. A single bar of light ran across this, probably making this the control center for the vehicle; it's eyes and brain. Directly below that was a curved platform that eventually led down to the two bus-sized treads that propelled the construction, which in total appeared to be at least fifteen meters tall. At both the right and left side of the platform were two identical gun turrets dangling from the underside. These turrets were swiveling back and forth in a semi-circular pattern. The gigantic steel torso of the vehicle swiveled back and forth, sweeping. A gigantic cloud of dust following in the machines wake.

The features of the machine were becoming more clear and recognizable as John stared at it; it was coming toward him the school at a quick pace, and there weren't any obstructions on the ground which could slow it down. 

John turned and ran for the door, not bothering to watch where he was going even amid all the debris. And before he knew it, his foot crashed down on a dust covered skull. His foot slipped on the curved remnant and quickly crushed it, causing John to lose his balance and fall forward with a surprised yell. He hit the ground with a dull thump and jerked in pain as sharpened stones and bone cut into his flesh. Yelling unabashedly in pain, John frantically brushed the debris off his stomach and scrambled up off the floor. He stood there for a moment, breathing in rapidly. He stuck his hand up into his shirt and felt around for blood, wincing as he touched open cuts. His hand came away slightly bloodied. Probably a few small cuts, nothing that would warrant stitches or anything of the sort. That made them no less painful to John, and he quickly tried to ignore it. His mind was on auto-pilot, it was following only one instinct: fear. 

Who could have told him this? Why hadn't somebody at least said something about what these _monsters_ looked like? That thing was so fucking huge, those turrets looked like they could mark John from over a mile away and hit him flawlessly. He cringed in pain, clenching his teeth as he burst through the door and out into the hallway. He took a few running steps and skidded to a halt, his mouth falling open in a sudden, wild panic. He gasped and it almost sounded like a scream. 

The hallway was gone. He was standing in open wilderness. Horrendously cold wind kicked up almost immediately against him as he stood there. The school was in ruins, there was just a few pieces of wall here, a locker there. Skeletons and blackened, twisted school books and accessories littered the area. Almost directly ahead of him was another free-standing classroom like the one he'd just been in. There was no ceiling, all he saw when he looked up was the sky and the horizon, which was lined with the ruins of Los Angeles. To the left and right of him were continuations of the hallway; the tiles, though nearly red with dust, still existed, and so did the wall, although that eventually ended a few meters away in both directions. The charcoal smell he'd noted earlier was even worse out here. There was a kind of howling from the sky as the wind blew. The rumbling from the Skynet behemoth was immensely loud at this point.

He turned around just in time to watch the Skynet vehicle plow straight into the detention room, generating a cacophonous crashing sound as wood and concrete collapsed. The vehicle was impossibly, awe-inspiringly huge when he was this close to it, bestriding the landscape like a marauding giant. The moving parts and screeching metal roared in his ears, and one of the gun turrets swiveled down as the behemoth moved forward. The turret aligned itself directly on John's forehead; he knew this because his vision was suddenly blinded by glowing red. 

John's training rushed back to him like a kick in the ass. He flicked his head to the right and left, determined which was least likely to break his neck, and dived to the right in the space of a second. Almost as soon as he vaulted through the air, the Skynet creation opened fire, spewing forth a large globule of plasma. A flash of light accompanied by a loud ringing noise was all John saw of the impact, and then he hit the ground, arms tucked out ahead of his head to shield it from the shock of hitting the ground. He landed and cut both of his arms on debris, probably lacerating them, but his head was alright, and that's all that mattered to him at this point. He scrambled up and started sprinting for the closest mound of debris. He could hear hydraulics running as the plasma turret readjusted aim and prepared to fire again, and he started zig-zagging as he ran, throwing the machine's aim. The mound he'd targeted was so close now, he could just run another few feet and he'd been in cover. He felt a crazed sort of terror in addition to the adrenaline rushing through him now; it was similar to a feeling of pure determination in that it almost literally gave you wings. 

That's when he heard someone yell up ahead of him. He couldn't even tell what it was, but it sounded like a human voice, and that was good enough for him. John yelled at the top of his lungs and waved his arms above his head once as the behemoth finally fired again. A ball of super-heated plasma buzzed right over his head and struck the ground about five feet ahead of him. He barely felt the impact, but it was strong enough to lift him bodily through the air and deposit him a few feet away on his back. He laid there in shock for a moment before he coughed up blood, splattering the corners of his mouth. He could barely move, and he knew that was it.

There was a small, almost miniscule _whoosh _from a few feet away, accompanied by an brief flare of light. A second later and there was an explosion. Metal screeched. The behemoth's plasma turrets fired off twice in quick succession at another target. John rolled himself around and stared at the vehicle. One of the plasma turrets had been destroyed and smoke billowed out from the wound. The giants torso was tracking something John couldn't see, firing rapidly-

John winced and instinctively covered his head as two pairs of running legs ran out in front of him. When he opened his eyes he saw that those legs belonged to two men wearing an amalgam of body armor and fur coverings. One of them was carrying a sleek looking rifle with a telescopic sight attached. It had a short sling attached to the under side which dangled freely as the man ran forward. The other one, who was now crouching, was carrying a long tube-shaped launcher. He turned and yelled something to the first man, who dropped his rifle and quickly shrugged off his backpack, pulling an arm-length rocket out from it. The second man tipped the launcher over slightly and helped the first load the rocket in. They both turned the rocket counter-clockwise. Finally, the second man lifted the launcher over his shoulder and peered down a telescopic sight as the first man helped to steady the firing tube. The Skynet vehicle was still busy firing rapidly at several other men among Campo de Cahuenga's ruins. 

The launcher fired, disgorging the rocket and sending it flying toward the behemoth. The vehicle quickly swiveled toward the incoming rocket and tried to turn its remaining plasma gun on it, but it was far too late. The rocket smashed into the Skynet behemoth directly in its head, causing it to explode. The machine rumbled on its treads for a few seconds before it stopped, its gun turret drooping and falling silent. John's eyes lit up victoriously as he realized that the thing was dead. He heard no shouts of elation, though, no cries of victory. The men in front of John just quietly re-appropriated their equipment and the second man, the one with the launcher, started running toward the killed Skynet vehicle, yelling something John couldn't hear in a sharp, commanding voice. 

The first man turned almost instantly and looked over at John. He was wearing a coal-scuttle helmet with some kind of chip attached to the helm, in front of his right eye. His eyes were a light green, and John couldn't see his hair. The soldier --a resistance fighter, John dully realized-- shouldered his rifle and walked forward. The other fighters were currently sprinting toward the behemoth and the ones who had already reached it were busily trying to strip it of...something. 

John stayed exactly where he was, frozen to the ground. A large part of that had to do with the fact that he felt as though he'd broken something in his fall, otherwise he'd be leaping up to hug the guy who'd helped kill the Skynet behemoth. He felt a dull sort of pain in his leg, and blood was trickling down from his mouth a bit. 

"Are you hurt?" the guy asked as he reached John. He pulled off his backpack and quickly produced a small box with a red-cross on it. John felt himself nod. The man stared at him for a brief moment and told him to open his mouth. John opened his mouth. The guy scooted forward and removed a small pencil light from his kit and shined it into his mouth. He grunted in satisfaction and flicked the thing off, "Just bit your mouth, should be fine. Can you tell me where else?" He spoke in soothing tones, but came off a bit haggard just the same. He'd just been in a battle, after all. 

John opened his mouth, as though to test if he was still able to speak. "Uh..."

The man raised an eyebrow --not that John could see it-- and tilted his head forward, waiting. John gulped and said, "I-I hurt my chest and my back. And my leg, I think it's broken. Arms too. Uh, cut up, that is."

The man sighed and cast an apprehensive look toward the horizon, scanning. After a moment he turned back and said, "Lift your shirt up, lemme see."

John obeyed. The man squinted a bit and grunted, "Just some cuts, you'll live. Arms? Roll em' up. Jeez, are you one of Sarkissian's traders? Rich bastards."

That term meant nothing to John. He rolled his sleeves up, which were rather red with blood. The soldier's eyes widened a bit in sympathy, "Lacerations. They'll need stitching. Not now, though." He was speaking a mile a minute, the words rushing out seemingly over and under one another. He was definitely in a hurry, constantly looking back to his compatriots as they scavenged parts off the machine. "Try standing?"

John started to stand up and felt a blunt sort of pain in his leg, but nothing like a broken bone. It was probably sprained. He managed to get in one demonstration that he could stand before flopping back down in pain. John felt very detached, as if he was suffering from post-traumatic stress. He was shaking all over and couldn't stop himself. That thing tracking him...jesus christ. And the worst part was, John had barely even stopped to register just where he was. 

"Tough stuff," the soldier said, smiling. He looked back to the dead machine and yelled, "ONE MINUTE, ELSE AERIAL'S WILL BE ON OUR ASS!"

"Thanks," John said. He looked around, sighing. "That was...shit."

The man shrugged, "We do what we gotta do. I just hope we didn't lose anyone doing it." He gave John a severe look, "How old're you?"

"Fifteen," John said. "I'll be sixteen soon, though." He added quickly.

The man nodded easily at that, "One of my guys, he's just a bit younger than you are."

John stared at him. "Oh, christ." He looked around, and that revelation and this fucking landscape just fell on him all at once, "Oh christ." He lowered his head and held his forehead. God, what was he doing here? How did this happen so quickly? Where was everyone? He cast an ashen look toward the desolation around him. 

He expected the soldier to scold him or something for being ignorant. Instead he merely crouched down and sighed, "It's going to be tough, John. And it's going to look exactly like this."

John blinked at the guy. "How'd you know that?" 

The soldier took off his helmet, revealing brown, scruffy hair and a broad forehead. He set down the helmet and looked into John's eyes, "I know you doubt right now. I know there will be times where you feel that it's not worth it. You're confused, I know, and yes, I know you want to live a regular life, but you've got to believe me...John. We need you. You can't give up. You've got to be there to lead us."

There were a lot of things John could have said right then. He could express disbelief, tell him he was wrong...thank him for his inspirational words...vow to live up to them...He could simply sit there and wonder what the hell was going on (leaning toward that), or...

"Why me?"

The man stared at John a moment. There was a distant noise like jet-engines going off, and the man's eyes drifted over to the horizon. John's gaze remained fixed on the soldiers face. The man stood up and looked down at John. He just sighed again, as if overwrought. Finally, he said, "Look, I have to run, I'm sorry. Just...you've got to remember not to give up. Please." He sounded almost pleading as he finished, and the two stared at each other a moment before the soldier picked up his backpack and helmet. If he thought that that settled things, he was fucking crazy. John glared at him, as if it was his fault for not explaining everything to him. The rest of the resistance fighters ran over to join him, and all of them ignored John except for the first man, who kept looking back as they started to run in the other direction. John stared at the retreating soldiers until they had disappeared into the ruins. 

The jet noise was getting louder. John turned his head skyward and was blinded by an HK Aerial's search-light as it sighted him. 

-------------

"Baum, wake up."

John slowly raised his head, murmuring a bit. He tried to shake the hand away. 

"Oh, please. Wake up!"

John's eyes shot open, and he turned quickly to survey the room. Neutral blue walls. Chairs and desks all where they ought to be. Bemused teacher in front of him. He resisted the urge to let out a huge sigh of relief as he realized, again, that he'd only been dreaming. That had been...a lot more real than his last dream. Idly, he wiggled his leg a bit to see if it hurt. Felt fine. 

John smiled blandly at the teacher, "Sorry. Guess I dozed off." He also felt the urge to touch the teacher, to feel if she was real or not. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, annoyed with that sporadic thought. 

"More like passed out," the woman spat, obviously depleted of perkiness for the day. "The day's done. You've gotta go."

John nodded and groggily picked himself up from his seat. The teacher stood nearby with her arms folded; she wouldn't be satisfied until the status quo was restored and he was gone. John started toward the door. A few other students were still sitting around, obviously doing extra time. They glowered at him as he left. His mind was on other things, though. 

Not only had this dream felt more real than the last one he'd had, he had a feeling that they were connected, too. The soldier he met...It was the second figure from the first dream. Looked just like him. There was a definite theme growing here, and that theme seemed to be "make John learn something," but he was damned if he knew what that 'something' was. What was his sub-conscious trying to tell him? What did he feel, even vaguely, guilty about? He sighed and rubbed his head as he went through the door. 

...and found Cheri Westin leaning against a locker. She looked right at him and started to approach. A quick look around the hall confirmed that Cameron wasn't around, but he suspected she'd be along quickly enough. Cheri appeared to be mentally reciting something as she walked over. John, seeing no way out of this, bit his lip and said "Hi," to her.

"Hi, John."

This day wasn't gonna fucking end. 


	6. Bad shape mentally

**Flight is Right**

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction...which derives from another work of fiction. Seriously, who would sue over shit like this?

Chapter Six: _A noun used to describe a person in bad shape physically or mentally._

John Connor was expecting some sort of hastened explanation from Cheri Westin for the events of the day, rife with embarrassment and apologizing every few seconds. "It can't be helped" or "I'm really sorry, but..." Expected her to admit that Michael Oxferod was her boyfriend. John expected to take all of that in and simply sigh and nod as a way of responding, hiding his feelings. He was fine with that. He was way too harried from his dream from not even five minutes ago to care much about anything at this point. He just felt tired. 

Instead both teenagers said absolutely nothing for a full minute after greeting one another and stood there in the middle of the hallway, fidgeting uncomfortably and looking down in mutual embarrassment as students brushed past them in a never-ending wave of human traffic. Did that mean there was something going on that was even worse than John had imagined? He doubted that. A lot. Maybe it was because he refused to believe that his day could become even worse, as if there was a cap on unfortunate events for one day in a person's life.

John eyed her and sighed, "C'mon, let's walk." He gestured toward the double doors near the end of the hallway, where students were constantly piling out, free from school for the day. 

Cheri shook her head, "No, my dad's outside. He'll expect me to come right over."

John rolled his eyes, "My mom's outside. She'll expect _me_ to come right over."

Their eyes met and they had to smile. It was a good ice-breaker, but neither of them moved an inch from where they stood. John twirled the lower half of his broken pencil idly in his right hand. 

"I...just wanted to clarify on a few things, John," Cheri finally said. "So we can avoid this in the future." If only she knew just how much future avoiding John already had planned. 

"That'd be nice," John said bitterly. "I only like getting punched, say, twice a day. Three's just going a bit over the top."

Cheri sighed, and John felt stupid for having opened his mouth to say anything other than "go on." Why the hell was he acting like it was her fault, anyway? God, he could act so immature sometimes. Sighing himself, he gestured for her to go on. She nodded.

"I'm...very special to Mike. I don't want to get into it. He always has these bad sorts of reactions when he thinks someone's trying to...oh, I don't know..." she shook her head, as if considering what she was saying for the first time. John simply stared at her, silently predicting where this was going. "...get close to me?" She looked at John, causing him to dip his head as if he'd suddenly remembered that his shoes were untied. He looked back up and swallowed hard for a second, unable to say anything.

"Just as friends," he eventually heard himself say. He twirled the pencil violently, almost dropping it. 

"Right." Cheri agreed quickly, "Mike, he just... He's a lot like my dad, I guess. Doesn't want me..." she described something in the air with her finger. 

"Doing anything cool. Being normal." John supplied easily. He had first hand experience. Years of it. Christ, he'd lived two years in West Fork, Nebraska. Had friends and everything, and his mom just...decided they had to go. And that was that, no ands, ifs or buts. And that was his life.

Cheri stared at him in mute shock, "Yeah. That's...exactly it, actually."

"I know how you feel," John said, nodding his head bitterly. He shook his head, "Why do you deal with it, then?"

She looked pensive for a moment, her eyes narrowing somewhat. She looked...hurt in fact. Stupid of him of him to say something like that. Finally, she said, "What about you? Why deal with it?"

John blinked and his mouth fell open a bit. He hadn't considered how easily she could turn a stupid comment like that around _just_ after he'd gotten finished comparing their lives a moment ago. He could act so dumb at times, it pissed him off. John ended up shaking his head at that, his eyes averted, implying that he didn't want to talk about it. Cheri didn't look smug or anything. She simply nodded and said, with a tinge of exasperation, "Look, all I wanted to say was that it's not as if we can't, y'know, hang out or anything at school, because we can. I talked to him. He won't do shit like that again."

"Well, good to know I won't get clobbered for sitting down somewhere anymore." Holy fuck, he was acting like a dick. He couldn't help himself, though. He felt entitled to... Goddamnit!

Cheri sighed deeply, "John, we've both had a horrible day. All three of us, even. It doesn't mean you have to act like an asshole about it."

John said nothing. He licked his lips and his eyes drifted left and right down the hallway. Cameron Phillips was sashaying down the corridor, not hurried. She was talking to some guy who grinned like an idiot every time she opened her mouth. John stared down the corridor for a moment, his eyes widening with each second. Cheri was still talking, and when John realized this he swiveled his head back toward her.

"What?" he said, and, like with almost every other utterance by him in this conversation, he instantly regretted it. He'd stopped twirling the pencil.

Cheri stared at him. Looking sullen, she sighed again, "Forget it. I'll see you tomorrow." She turned away from him and started to fast-walk toward the doors at the end of the hall. John stared at her retreating back for a moment in silent dismay before running toward her, yelling "Wait!"

She turned instantly and said, "John, I've had enough for today. You need to calm yourself down." She started walking again.

"I am calm!" he practically screamed, "Just wait a second, --I'm sorry-- wait, I wanted-"

She whirled around and silenced him with a slash-throat gesture, a motion that shocked him with its passive fury. He skidded to a halt in front of her, his eyes going very wide. She was never this vehement...at least as far as he knew. Her face was impassive and composed, as it usually was, but her eyes betrayed that. They were dark and narrowed. She looked furious and exasperated, as if she was dealing with a child that wouldn't stop demanding a treat. After a moment of this, she sobered significantly and she just looked tired. It was at this point that John realized that convincing Mike to leave him alone must have drained her. They stared at each other for almost ten seconds before Cheri said in monotone, "See you in Chemistry." With an air of finality she turned and walked off. 

John whirled to the side and tossed the broken pencil at a nearby locker in rage. It made a small, almost cute _pling_ as it hit, nearly striking a nearby student. He didn't give a shit. He felt like yelling something repugnant. He never failed to amaze even himself with his fucking attitude. He was supposed to be above this! The Supreme fucking Commander never loses his fucking cool over a goddamned girl! He hadn't felt this fucking helpless since he'd failed to stop Jordan Cowan from killing herself. He was...he was...

About to short-circuit. He _would_ start yelling if he dwelled on this shit any longer. He clenched his teeth and settled his body against a locker. He couldn't wait to get home and focus himself on finding this guy Forsythe. He wanted so badly for these troubles to just go away. Shooting and doing shit to stop Skynet, his heart in his throat, adrenaline pumping through him as he ran around, that was his normal routine. Getting involved in a stupid fight --his mom couldn't know about this, obviously. She'd taught him so much better than that--, worrying himself silly over a girl was fucking new to him, it was-

_Stop stop stop._

He took a shuddering breath and exhaled. Cameron and the grinning idiot were just about on top of him, and, by the sound of things, she was saying her goodbyes. The guy stopped for a second and scribbled something hurriedly onto a scrap of paper and handed it to Cameron. She looked down, probably committing the obvious phone number to memory, and handed it back to him. Said something. They parted and she stopped her little hip-bump walk thing and strode right over to John. She lifted her arm and touched his shoulder, causing him to flinch back a bit as if he'd just been stung.

"You're in distress," she said matter-of-factly. "Are you sick?"

John glared daggers at her and said, "No. I'm not fuckin' sick." She raised an eyebrow. He quickly moved to change the subject before she could comment on his language, "Who was that?" He pushed himself up from the locker and they started heading toward the double doors. The wave of students was thinning substantially, so they were able to walk pretty much uninterrupted. 

"My new friend. He says I'm hot."

Maybe if John hadn't just been thinking about Cheri so much he'd have felt something there. A stabbing sensation in his head, hot jealousy...the mysterious Something Else, perhaps. Instead he just felt bemused. "Nothing gets past him," he said scoffingly. 

Cameron's eyes lit up, "He said that too. He's a football player."

John sighed, "Yeah?"

"Yes," she confirmed. And they walked. John pushed open one of the doors and blinked as he stepped out into the sunlight. Students milled about the outside of Campo de Cahuenga High School, talking or heading toward the street. John noticed that the stolen military jeep his mom and Cameron had appropriated a week ago wasn't around. 

"Sarah is gathering information on Forsythe," Cameron explained. "He's apparently staying at a hotel somewhere in town, but the awareness program's website is inconclusive. We're walking."

"I noticed," John murmured. "And Derek?"

Cameron was silent for a moment, and he noticed her glaring very subtly, subtly enough so that he almost didn't recognize it. Apparently the feeling of dislike between Derek and Cameron was mutual, "She didn't say."

John nodded. They walked on in silence for a few minutes after that, clearing the school grounds and heading out into Los Angeles proper towards a bus stop. Cars infested the street and honked at each other constantly. A few cars nearby were playing hip-hop music. Someone inside one car was yelling out to a person in another car. It was almost impossible to think with all that noise. John loved it. He struggled to hear every sound in unison as much as he could, willing to be, if temporarily, thoughtless. His ears started ringing.

Cameron was saying something. John pretended not to hear and kept his eyes anchored ahead, prompting her to touch his shoulder again. John sighed and turned to her. The noise level around him seemed to drop almost instantly as his attention was otherwise engaged.

"I was asking about what happened between you and Cheri Westin," Cameron said.

"We kinda got mad at each other and just left it at that," John said.

"Why?"

John closed his eyes tightly and opened them after a second, feeling somewhat dizzy. "I really, really don't want to talk about it, Cam. It was really upsetting to me. Understand?" He looked at her and waited, feeling a slight bit embarrassed at having admitted this much, even to a machine. It made him feel like he was a kid again.

Cameron stared at him for a moment and nodded, "Yes, I understand. Are you going to cry?"

John cringed and looked away, once again startled into silence by her bluntness. 

_I know now why you cry. But it is something I can never do. _She wasn't much different from her predecessors in a lot of ways, and John wasn't sure if that made things better or worse. 

He quickly shook his head. She nodded in return and moved on, "John?"

"Cam... c'mon," John pleaded. His head was really starting to hurt all of a sudden. They started to cross a street, and were almost to the bus stop.

She completely ignored him, "I just wanted to apologize."

He blinked. "For what?"

"For..." she paused for a second, which was frankly shocking to John, "Acting angrily toward you earlier today. I was confused and wasn't sure how your feelings toward Cheri Westin would effect my assignment."

John's eyes widened sharply. She was lying. Christ, she was lying so blatantly, it wasn't even funny. Shaking his head, he said in a low voice, "Don't you just...I dunno, roll with this sort of shit?"

"Not always," she said simply. John shook his head and looked down in mute shock. Should he call her on it? He sighed.

"Apology accepted," he said bitterly. It was all he could fucking do. If he mentioned that he thought she was lying...well, he didn't know what would happen. Nothing good. "Are we done?"

She turned to him and looked on for a second with her trademark deer-in-headlights sort of stare. They reached the bus stop and John let go of his backpack, flopping down on a bench. After a moment of sitting he laid down and blinked rapidly under the sun glare. He brought his hands up to his face and held them there for a few seconds, breathing in and out. 

"Yes," Cameron finally said. "I'm sorry if I've stressed you unduly." 

"Whatever," John said through his hands. He slowly lifted them away and stared up at her. She was looking down at him, completely impassive. He opened his mouth to say something. He thought better of it and kept the stupid thing shut. 

Neither he nor Cameron said a word on the trip back home. 

----------------------

_went to the park - Derek_

John pulled the slip of paper off the door and started to fish around in his pockets for the house key. He had his own copy; everyone did, even Derek. He briefly wondered what the resistance fighter would be doing leaving the house so soon. Didn't really matter, John decided. Derek's note was short and efficient, it explained the entire situation for the household in four words. He went to the park. Ergo, the house was empty. They'd have to wait alone for a while until an adult returned (who's they? wasn't John the only legitimate child here?) Nothing else was necessary in the note. 

"That's strange," Cameron commented idly.

John said nothing to her. He kept his eyes anchored toward the door and grunted as he felt the key dance around his fingers, interspersed with the cool metal of spare change. After a moment he managed to grip the thing with two fingers and pulled it out of his pocket. He pushed the key into the hole, unlocked the door and went inside, Cameron following close behind.

"I don't understand why he'd venture outside so soon after being wounded," she continued. John peered down at the note and sniffed, letting go of his backpack and setting it on a chair in the kitchen. He slapped the note down on the table and went toward the fridge. Cameron began to fiddle with the note, turning it over in her hand, as if inspecting it. John frowned as he searched the fridge for the turkey; damned bird was always hiding from him. Meat drawer was _always_ empty, it really made no sense. 

Cameron set the slip back on the table and said, "Maybe he just wants fresh air."

She had to know she was basically just talking to herself at this point. Were Terminators supposed to do that? It seemed just as ridiculous as, say, Terminators having a stupid quip every time they murdered somebody. John growled as he caught sight of the plastic packaging of the turkey and subsequently lost it. He stuck his hand as far as it would go into the fridge and waved it around, sighing to himself.

"Or he's meeting someone."

John's hand briefly brushed against something cold and packaged just as he waved it in the opposite direction. When he quickly waved it back, he didn't feel the turkey again. His eyes widened slightly as he considered the possibility that the turkey might be deliberately moving away from him. That was silly. Turkeys, especially dead and sliced up ones, couldn't move that far in a packed refrigerator. 

"But he should be back here, waiting for Sarah to come back..."

John sighed and withdrew his hand, ready to admit defeat. He stood up and started to close the fridge door when he saw the turkey, sitting in plain sight between the milk and eggs. He stared at the wayward meat for a moment with suspicion before he quickly reached out and grabbed the package. After closing the fridge he walked over to the bakers rack, retrieving the white bread from one of the lower shelves. He retrieved a knife from the cabinet and set about making his sandwich. 

Cameron stood in the center of the room the entire time, staring at John's busily moving back as he ignored her musings. She narrowed her eyes and cleared her throat. Of course, no blockage, mucus or otherwise, was capable of manifesting itself in her "throat", but she could imitate the noise perfectly. John didn't stir as he laid the sliced turkey on the pieces of bread. He continued for a minute before finishing, not saying a word. After he was done, he lifted the first half of the sandwich and started eating over the counter-top, not turning. 

Cameron sat down and faced toward the window, turning her back away from John. 

There was a brief moment of silence, punctuated only by the sound of John's muted chewing. He lifted the next half of the sandwich up slightly before dropping it and laying his head down on the counter-top. His hand pushed the sandwich away and he brought his arms up and pushed his forehead on top of them so that his head lay directly on his right wrist. He wanted to go to bed so bad right now, wasn't even funny; but he had to stay awake. Had to plan with mom and all, or at least help. 

He started crying. He was such a freaking pussy sometimes, but the truth was that the shit had just piled on and on until he couldn't stand it anymore. It was the same exact schpeal he'd gone over about a billion times in his head during the last twenty four hours, and he was essentially riding a self-renewing pity train. But he'd...never _reacted_ besides a minute to himself in the bathroom right after the confrontation with Mike, and that had just been what essentially translated to after shakes. He'd never given himself time to really process the shit except feeling confused and full of rage. He needed to just let it set in for a while and let himself calm down, exactly as Cheri had said an hour ago. He couldn't do that if he kept it bottled up. Christ, he was so emotional sometimes. 

He tried to keep it silent. That never really worked. Sometimes he went outside and just bawled as loud as he could when he was sure no one could hear him. Should have waited until he was alone. Within seconds he was sort of whimpering to himself. His body started shaking. He lifted his head up, placing his chin over his wrist and stared blurredly at the wall. He absently heard Cameron's chair push back from the table with sharp suddenness. Heard her stand up and...felt her eyes on him. He sniffled and breathed in for a second, waiting for her to say something. Anything. He knew exactly what he'd do. Stop, wipe himself up. Get up and smile lamely at her. Go to his room.

Instead he heard nothing. She was just standing there, frozen. If he looked back he'd see that she was staring at him intently, her eyes focused like individual telescopes on his jittering form. She was just taking it in. Gathering data, essentially. She'd never, ever seen him cry except earlier today, and that had just been a small thing. It had been an after-shock. This carried more emotional weight. 

What could she say? Human responses for these occurrences were numerous. Most people offered supportive words, supplemented with affectionate physical touching. A small percentage ordered the subject to stop at once, mostly as a concern for their own embarrassment as well as the humiliation of the subject involved. Others still simply said nothing. Cameron wanted very much to pursue the first option, but she didn't have nearly enough data to make a good decision here that would positively effect all parties involved, including herself. She opted instead to remain silent and ignore him. She sat down on the chair again and waited.

John remained motionless until he heard her sit down on the chair again. As she did, he tilted his head down sharply and strangled a loud sob by pressing his mouth against his arm. After stopping a few more, he shut his eyes tight and just sat there, rocking himself gently as tears trickled down his face steadily. He did this in almost complete silence until he basically spent himself after a few minutes. He dully rubbed his face with the back of his left hand and let out a shuddering, final sigh.

He felt alright after that. Better, at least, then he had been before. It was like purging a system of bad memory for the time being. 

Right, OK. He blinked a few times and rubbed at his forehead, feeling more exhausted than he had before. His face was a bit red from the combination of embarrassment and crying. He looked down at the discarded turkey sandwich and took a small bite. A few seconds later and he'd devoured it. 

He brought his folded arms up off the counter-top and risked looking back towards Cameron. Her eyes were fixed toward the window. After a moment, she seemed to become re-aware of his presence and looked at him questioningly. God, what to say... He cleared his throat. 

"Big wreck, huh?" he said, rolling his eyes theatrically. 

Cameron stared in mild confusion for a moment before she must have realized what he was talking about, "You show standard symptoms of depression."

"Depression," John echoed dully. 

"It's common among people your age," Cameron said, as if that helped. "Wanna talk about it?" She was quoting again.

"I'm really tired," John said, and he wondered why he said that instead of '"no" or "yes."

"Rest usually helps," she allowed, perhaps deciding as well that that was his answer. 

John shook his head, "Not always. Sometimes..."

"Nightmares?" Cameron supplied.

"I had another today..."

"What happened in it?" she asked. 

John thought for a second, "I'll tell you about the one I had the other night. You remember?" She nodded. He told her about it. He explained it in full detail, right down to Cameron using an AK-74 assault rifle. As soon as he finished he sat up on the counter-top and started to twiddle his thumbs. Cameron was silent for a moment before saying, "Your subconscious doubts are manifesting themselves in the form of dreams. That's their only outlet."

He frowned a moment; he expected a different answer. He wasn't sure why, but he just did. He sighed, "I know. I just wanted to get it off my chest. That's all." He hated lying. 

"What about the one today?" 

John got off from the counter-top and started to put away the things he'd used to make the sandwich. He placed the turkey in a very, very obvious spot, even though he knew it would be inexplicably missing the next time he opened the damned fridge. "Not now, Cam," he said. He looked back at her and sighed, "Don't tell anyone about this, OK?" His mother was no stranger to tear jerking, but he didn't want to talk about it with her. Not yet anyway. 

Cameron smiled at him for a flicker of a second, "Thank you for telling me about this much, at least. I'll keep it secret."

John's eyes brightened up a bit at that, "Thanks."

"You should get some rest."

He nodded at that and walked out of the room, leaving Cameron to wait for either Sarah or Derek's return. John felt a bit better after all that. Despite her being a machine, he felt he could at least confide in her whenever she wasn't acting...hugely creepy, as she sometimes did. That didn't matter right now. What mattered is that she'd been there, and she'd _understood._ He wandered into his bedroom and flopped down on the bed, wondering why he couldn't act this way around regular people without feeling like he was weird afterward. 

He fell asleep almost instantly, right as he remembered that he'd forgotten to ask Cameron about the peculiar stones in the backyard.

------------------

John woke up to the feeling of someone stroking his hair. It was the sort of waking where you simply become conscious, not opening your eyes or otherwise doing much of anything. The hand pushed up through the locks of hair and gently rubbed the crown of his head in a circular pattern. It withdrew for a moment, as if completely unsure of what it was doing, then pressed down again over his head and resumed rubbing. John only felt the tips of the persons fingers, as though the person standing over him wanted to quickly pull away should he wake up. 

John didn't process any of this, nor acknowledge it. He only thought _Mom_ and tilted his head up, smiling. The hand pulled back immediately, like John had a contagious disease or something, "When'd you get home?" he murmured. 

Nothing. The person standing over him took a few steps back, a prelude to leaving the room entirely. John's eyes flicked open.

Derek Reese was backing away from the bed, looking...well, very embarrassed, to say the least. John, who was completely and utterly taken aback by this, did absolutely nothing. He just stared at Derek in mute surprise, his eyes widening. Christ, what the hell should he do? Start yelling at him? Tell him to get out in a slightly hurt voice? Act really, really disturbed and say nothing? He was, quite literally, immobilized with shock. 

Derek didn't appear to be having much luck either. He opened and closed his mouth twice before merely staring back at the teenage version of his future commander. 

John, after taking a moment to calmly collect himself, said, "What were you doing?"

Derek's eyes went faintly blank for a moment and he closed them. Opened them. A metamorphose seemed to take place across his entire face, and he looked _annoyed_ now instead of embarrassed, "Waking you up," he said, as though it were obvious.

It took a lot of effort on John's part to keep from exploding at that. And boy, what an explosion it would have been. He could just feel it building inside of him. He shut his eyes like vaults closing and said, "By...petting me?"

"No." That was a reflex answer. 

John brought his right palm up to his head and felt at the place where Derek had been...stroking him. His hand started shaking convulsively and he forced it down again. This was a chess game, and he was waist deep in zugzwang. Zugzwang is when you are forced to make a move when you'd be better off not doing anything at all. John had to say something really, really fucking conclusive, and it wouldn't be pretty. _HE DID NOT NEED THIS SHIT RIGHT NOW._

Deep breath. Full speed ahead. Don't fucking panic, you'll start blubbering again; "You're lying."

Derek's facade of distant annoyance and soldierly professionalism shattered like an expensive piece of china being smashed with a hammer. He blinked and turned his face away, "I don't know," he whispered. Christ, he sounded sincere. 

Was he...no, he couldn't be...could he? It was possible. John could live with something like that --_You fucking pussy, just think it. Gay. Oh god oh--_ he supposed, but...with _John_? With a _kid?_ That was so fucking hilarious, in a cosmic way. And Derek didn't even know that he was his fucking _nephew._ John felt vaguely sick.

It never occurred to him, of course, that Derek might have known this, and hadn't been stroking his head in a loving way, but in a familial way. 

John took a shuddering breath and said, "I'm gonna forget about this. Ok?" He realized, very, very absurdly at that moment that he had an after-sleep erection. Normal for him, always happened. _AND IT JUST HAPPENED TO COINCIDE WITH THIS? _Oh jesus. 

Derek nodded and said, "Your, uh, I mean, Sarah wants to talk. To all of us."

"Ok."

"Alright."

"Get out please. Don't do that again. I don't know what would happen if you did that again. Please."

Derek nodded with each word, looking downright miserable, and he left the room as soon as John gestured toward the door. As soon as the door closed, John whirled back into his bed and screamed into his pillow. All of the relief he'd felt after his good cry was gone, drained right out of him. All the weight was back, sitting on him. The golem on his shoulder was biting eagerly. Just as eagerly, John quickly assigned blame for this unto Derek. He blasted the resistance fighter in his mind with everything he could think of. Accusations, names, oh the names. _Faggot, child fucker, oh christ._ How the FUCK had this happened? Why did things _like_ this happen? WHY HIM? Oh CHRIST. Holy shit he was a wreck. He felt...he wanted...he he...he...

John screamed again. 


	7. Best Laid Plans

**Flight is Right**

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction taking place within the Terminator franchise, which I do not own.

Author's Note: This'll be shorter than most, as it's mainly just providing set-up for the next chapter, which should be long and full of action.

Chapter Seven: Best Laid Plans

Derek Reese was cursing himself with every name under the sun as he paced through the hallway. He'd just done something so profoundly idiotic, he could barely think. He'd just disturbed the living _shit_ out of his nephew. _Nephew. _ Christ, he was still getting used to it. Every time he'd gone to the park and saw Kyle, his younger brother, the very reason Derek hadn't bothered killing himself for years after Judgement Day...he saw John. Every time he saw John he saw Kyle. When you coupled that with Sarah's allusions to a dead father, unwillingness to talk about Kyle...it all clicked into place. Kyle was John's father. John was Derek's nephew. That figure that Derek grew to despise in the future, from letting Terminators fight for the Resistance to sending his only brother away from him...was family.

He'd been sitting there at the picnic table with a beer in his hand earlier that day, watching his younger self and Kyle play baseball (they'd _loved_ that game. You could only play it out in the open, which had just about killed Kyle when they had to go underground) ...and it had just _clicked._ He'd started weeping in the same way he had when he watched Cameron dance. It had more to do with fear and apprehension rather than joy, because he felt so guilty for being so mad at John. Commander Connor, who was such a shining light in the future, sent his own father back in time with full knowledge of what would happen to him. _He doesn't care!_ Derek had said. He didn't care about what happened to little grunts like one Sergeant Kyle Reese. His _father._ That knowledge could make you insane.

Perhaps it was his drunkenness that had sent him into the kids room, or the need to just...be able to see family again. For real. He had a nephew... It was probably both, because without the beer swilling inside of him, he never would have actually touched his head.

That had been a stupid move. In fact, "move" was too generous a term for it. "Stupidity" in general fit much better. That had been a stupid _stupidity._ Although Derek genuinely believed that John would do his best to forget about the little incident, the imprint would still be there. He'd sent the wrong message...that was for sure. Kid probably thought he was a fucking boy --in both senses of the word-- lover or something. Derek had a feeling he wouldn't be able to grasp the full magnitude of that until he was a lot more sober. He was only too happy to put it off.

_His nephew_. He still had family, for the love of god. He was so freaking happy about that that not even his stupid mistake could bring him down. He knew he'd be able to explain what he'd done to John and then everything would ease over. He'd neglect, of course, the fact that he knew about being his uncle. That was special. He had to save that for something better, more satisfying than simply telling John that A) he wasn't a pedophile and B) oh, by the way, he was his uncle, so that made everything better. Derek knew he could think of something.

Right now...

"You coming, Derek?" Sarah yelled from the kitchen.

"Yep," he yelled back. He stopped pacing and made his way through the house, eventually coming into the kitchen. He grunted a bit in pain as he traveled down the stairs; bullet wounds in the torso tended to sting a bit even after a few days of recovery. Wasn't half as bad from a near direct hit from a Westinghouse M20-A plasma rifle (he'd been in bed for months after that, and drunk off his ass nearly every day of them), but it was close enough in that it made him immobile. When you spend half your life as a soldier, living essentially on a knife's edge every waking moment in the field, immobility was like being deprived of air. Eventually you grew to like stalking machines. You ignored all the skulls around you, for example. It was only when you retreated back into a bunker or facility that you realized, again, the terrible existence you were leading. He couldn't wait to hear what Sarah had planned, as long as it involved moving around.

He found her and Cameron Phillips in the kitchen. The television, which seemed doomed to be stuck on KTLA forever, was gurgling out an advertisement for some brand of women's shampoo. Cameron was staring at it intently, her mouth slightly twitching as she no doubt committed the full contents of the commercial to memory on the off chance that someone at school would talk about it. She creeped him the _hell out _that way. Derek and big hulking, occasionally Austrian, men...they went back a long way. He was familiar with them, he knew their tactics. She was something else. She was a lot smarter than most Terminators for one thing, although the Triple Eight had brains as well. She just...It was her frame. The teenage girl get-up. Who would suspect that kind of shit?

There were other, more obvious reasons for why she creeped him out, but he refused to think about them. He'd, quite literally, go nuts if he thought about _that._

Sarah was busily making...something for dinner, anyway. She really was a terrible cook, but Derek never complained about food. Anything hot and steaming was a luxury in his book. Cooking was also frankly less important than all the things she had to work on, such as trying to stop a computer system that would blow up Earth. Derek lurched into the kitchen and took a whiff of the food.

"Smells good," he lied. Or maybe he wasn't lying. Drunkenness could do many things to a man, and he wasn't even that drunk.

Sarah gave him the finger with her free hand, causing him to grin. She looked over and frowned when she didn't see her son.

"Where's John?"

Derek had to pause, carefully shutting his mouth so his loose mouth wouldn't blurt out an answer like "fumming in his room cos' he thinks I'm a child molester." He decided to go short and sweet with "In his room," and he made sure to give a nice sardonic ring to his tone.

Sarah glared lasers at him, "Let me re-phrase that: _Why_ is he not here?"

Derek sighed inwardly. What if John decided to tell everyone about what happened? He'd be in a bad position, no doubt, but it would be made worse if he lied to Sarah right here. What to do... He frowned. Sarah sniffed a bit and said, "You've been drinking."

Derek eagerly seized on the non-sequitor, "Got a problem with it?" He advanced over to the kitchen table and sat down on a chair. He frowned as Cameron's head flicked toward him, and he turned the chair around.

Sarah sighed, "Yes. I need you to remember what we're doing tomorrow, after all." She turned and folded her arms.

Derek stared at her, his eyes full of challenge, "Don't worry," he said, biting off each word, "I'll remember."

She smirked and said, "Sure you will," and turned back to whatever it was that she was making. She mumbled something under her breath. Derek couldn't care less, he was just glad she'd decided to forget about asking where her son-

She whirled around, obviously remembering. _Goddamnit! _"You didn't answer my question-"

Loud creaking from upstairs. Sarah cast a glance toward the ceiling for a moment, then turned back to Derek. He stared back impassively, although he was smiling to himself. Without a word, she turned back to the food. John came walking into the room a moment later. He looked around, as if to verify that everyone was here. His eyes lingered a moment on Derek before turning to the television, which was now spouting something about...something. Commercials were quite incomprehensible to him at times. Sarah turned to her son and nodded.

"Hey," she said, smiling, "Food's almost done, take a seat."

Derek noticed that Sarah's attitude seemed to transform every time John was around; spiteful one moment, peachy the next. It struck Derek as rather phony, but then again, he understood the mindset completely. He'd used it around Kyle all the time. She just loved her son, but her regular attitude conflicted with the necessary behavior that was needed around him.

She knew when she had to be hard on him, and that was the important thing. John lingered at the door for a moment, staring around uncertainly. Sarah looked over at him again, picking up on this, "Ok?"

He nodded. He walked into the kitchen and took a seat next to Cameron. The Terminator turned to him for a moment and absently brushed her hand across his shoulder. Derek's eyes narrowed as he watched that; he knew that Terminators could detect subtle things such as blood pressure and temperature through mere touching, which Cameron did a lot of unless people warned her against it. Derek was one of those people. He didn't want her snooping into a lot of things, which included his health. Who knew when she could use such things against him? John, on the other hand, didn't even flinch as she touched him. He looked as if he'd been expecting it, in fact. He even smiled a bit as she did it.

He didn't look too good, actually. Not that there was anything physically wrong with John at the moment. He just looked a bit...well, disturbed for obvious reasons, but he also looked frankly distant, as if he wasn't entirely there. Derek gave himself another mental walloping and resolved to explain what had happened after dinner. Things like this only festered and caused problems in the future. Christ, but that had been stupid of him...

Sarah walked over and presented...hamburgers of all things. Every single one looked charred. Derek was pleasantly surprised. John was less enthused, and stared at the patties with something close to dismay. Both he and Derek sandwiched them around buns and started eating as Sarah sat down in a chair next to Derek and scooped one up herself. Cameron, who never ate unless she was trying to blend in (or freak people out) didn't take one, though she did bring her attention away from the television.

They ate in silence for about a minute. Sarah looked around the table, probably trying to gauge how well the food was going down with everyone. It was like trying to eat a hot brick. Derek was used to _cold_ bricks, so he considered this a meal well made. John appeared to be doing his level best not to grimace.

"How was school?" Sarah asked. Derek sighed to himself; he hated small talk. Sarah probably thought it a necessary segway into what they'd be doing tomorrow. More likely it was an attempt to bond with her son on some level or another. Derek had no complaints there. Anything that seemed to normalize the life of this family was welcomed, as far as he saw.

John glanced over to Cameron for a moment, then said, "Fine. Really boring day, actually."

"I met a member of the football team. He says I'm hot," Cameron added.

Sarah looked too amused to even make a quip. "Aren't you supposed to be autistic?"

"Special," Cameron corrected, "And if he does know that, it obviously does not bother him."

"Poor guy," Derek mumbled. He took a nibble out of his burger; you couldn't really do anything but nibble, it would probably shatter your teeth like glass if you bit down hard enough. He risked a look at John and gulped down; "Uh, so nothing interesting, then?"

John, who'd been smiling absently at Cameron and Sarah's exchange, suddenly looked as if he'd just witnessed the Grinch come careening down the chimney. The teenager glared at him for a moment and said, "No."

Derek narrowed his eyes, "I meant the presentation."

John's eyes widened a bit; he'd forgotten about the job Sarah had given them, apparently. That meant he was lying about how dull his day had been, but Derek didn't care at this point. "Oh...well, we got a lot of different answers." He turned to Sarah as he spoke. Cameron added, "Either the school's staff is grossly incompetent or they're trying to limit the accessibility of the presentation."

Sarah sighed, "And who's 'they?'"

"Probably Forsythe's people," Cameron replied. "The only reason I can find for this is that Forsythe is afraid of an attempt on his life, given what happened to Andy Goode."

Derek kept his face perfectly neutral as she said that. He kept his face perfectly neutral whenever Andy was mentioned. He had to keep his face perfectly neutral because he was the one who'd killed Andy Goode (AKA: Billy Wisher) in the first place.

"Maybe they have something to hide," Sarah said.

Cameron only shrugged, "It could be. 76 of the answers given to me were in favor of Friday, although none of them were certain."

John said, "I think it's Wednesday."

Sarah turned to him, "Why's that?" she asked.

"There's this girl I spoke to," he said. Cameron turned to him suddenly. John, not noticing, continued, "She said she was positive that this thing is gonna happen on Wednesday."

"She spoke with a great deal of conviction," Cameron added.

John whipped his head around toward her and glared. She stared back evenly. He blinked and shook his head, "Don't...listen in on my conversations," he growled.

"I'll do what I think is necessary," Cameron said.

John shook his head a bit more and turned away, looking pissed. There was nothing he could do to stop her, after all.

Derek tried to re-rail the conversation, "She could have said the moon is green with as much conviction and still be wrong."

Sarah nodded at that, "Which is why we're going to find out for ourselves tomorrow."

Derek leaned toward her, eager to hear her plan. So did John.

"I found out which hotel Daniel's staying at; downtown in the Hilton."

"For a week?" John asked incredulously, "Guy's expensive. How'd you find out, anyway?"

"I managed to contact one of the guys from the chess tournament," she explained. "He was pretty forthcoming."

"Get on with it," Derek said. His head hurt slightly. If you did a lot of thinking so soon after downing a few beers, that tended to be the result. He just hoped he could remember all this in the morning.

Sarah rolled her eyes, "The plan itself is pretty simple: we get inside the hotel, find out what room he's staying at, get_ in_ that room, and snoop around and see what we can find."

"There's bound to be security," John said, with a hint of excitement in his voice.

"We're gonna stake the place out for a while before moving, don't worry," Sarah assured her son. He didn't look as if he cared one way or another, "If we're lucky we won't have to deal with them at all."

"We'll be safe enough from rent-a-cops," Derek said dismissively. He still thought this whole thing should take a back-seat to locating the Turk, although he did have to appreciate the simplicity of Sarah's plan. Finding out what was in this guys room could not only tell them all they needed to know about his role in the creation of Skynet, but also lead them to the man in the photograph Cameron had procured, and thus the Turk. Derek really doubted that, but it was always a possibility.

"There'll be cameras," Cameron pointed out, "_Those_ will have to be dealt with."

"I can take care of that," John said. "A few minutes in their security room and they'll be outta the picture. Who's going inside Forsythe's room?"

"I am," Sarah said, and she looked toward Derek, "You'll stay outside to cover for me." Cameron looked pleased with this answer; she had to protect John, after all. That's what she always said, at least.

Derek rolled his eyes, "And do what? Gently tell Danny boy that he has to wait until you're done ransacking his place?"

"You'll wait by the elevators or stairs," Sarah explained, ignoring the rhetorical question "If you recognize Forsythe, do what you can to stall him. Obviously you won't be able to warn me, but that's a risk we'll have to take."

Derek grunted and nodded after a moment's thought. If worst came to worst he'd simply knock the guy out.

"What about us?" John asked. He seemed eager to have a role here, even though it was looking as if it would be Cameron who'd see the least amount of usefulness.

"Cameron will get you to the security room once we've found out enough about the place. When you're inside, just disable the cameras and leave when you're done. Don't leave any finger prints, that goes without saying. We'll designate a place where we can meet after all's said and done."

"I'll deal with any threats that may be within," Cameron said.

"No shooting," Sarah warned.

"We have silencers," Cameron argued. Terminators, whether they were programmed to fight for good or evil, never skimped on the opportunity to make good on their gun fetishes.

"No shooting," John said.

"Fine."

"Speaking of which," said Derek, "What's our load-out going to be?"

"Pistols all around," Sarah replied, "We don't use them unless we see metal."

Derek nodded along with Cameron. John, however, said, "Uh, how likely is that?"

Sarah shrugged, "You never can tell. And if we _do_ see any of those things running around, we leave and reconsider our plan here."

John nodded, albeit reluctantly. He never liked the idea of leaving something unfinished, even if it was for the best. That was one of his problems during the war, actually. Several sapper teams could be completely wiped out in one battle because John wanted that last HK-tank destroyed. He was a finisher, and that was the primary reason why he was best equipped to handle Skynet. Derek, a soldier, didn't necessarily think that was a bad thing...but it got a lot of good people killed. He was still struggling to figure out how this kid, who apparently felt terrible after watching some bitch commit suicide, could grow into that man.

"Well, what about school?" John asked next.

"You're going to the doctor around 12:00."

"Right. The doctor."

Sarah finished off her burger, "Look, this is still a work in progress, but we'll be following a rough version of this plan when we set it to action. Obviously we'll be able to decide what needs changing when we stake the place out. Everyone understand?"

Derek, John and Cameron all nodded in unison. Despite his criticisms, Derek was actually pretty eager to get out and do this. He hated being cooped up in this house, waiting to heal. Tomorrow he'd do his level best to try and ignore the fact that he'd been shot only a week ago. He just hoped he'd see at least _some_ action.

"Great, now eat before your damned food gets cold."

Sarah gathered the plates and started depositing them in the sink. As she did this she started to whistle tunelessly, much to John's annoyance. When you grew to depend on your mother for so much, not the least your continued survival, it was easy enough to let the small things grate on your nerves. Cameron got up to resume her patrol of the house. John stared at her back as she walked off, a mixture of loathing and bemusement in his gaze. He _hated it_ when she did things like that; eavesdropping. It was so... it just brought you back to the fact that she was a machine, that she thought like a machine, and ultimately would act like a machine. Derek and Sarah didn't care about those things, and maybe they had reason not to, but John... for John, there was always something else. He just liked her better when she was...normal seeming. God knew she was more appealing when not acting like a creep.

He sighed and pushed himself up from the table. He wasn't looking at Derek. Another fucking creep, even if he was John's uncle. Christ, he'd acted so _cool_ around the table, like he hadn't been _touching_ John only a few minutes ago. He felt like he ought to tell his mom about that. Wipe the fucking smile of his face. He knew better than that, though. It would only cause problems, and Derek was an ally. Unfortunately. The way the guy had been acting during the past week...it didn't surprise John at all to find out about this. Well, of course he _had_ been surprised when he'd first found out about it. Of course. In retrospect, though, it wasn't surprising. Not at all.

"Just a second, John," Derek said, and John nearly jumped when he heard this. He wanted to talk. What would he say? Derek turned and made the television louder.

John stared angrily at his uncle for a moment. "No," he whispered, so his mom couldn't hear.

"Yes," Derek said. He was rubbing his forehead. "Sit down."

John closed his eyes tightly as he complied. He'd been so friggin' happy to think about the stuff they'd be doing tomorrow, it gave him an ample excuse to get away from all the shit that had plagued him all day. Just being reminded of it sobered him and made feel all tired again, like he just didn't wanna do anything. He sat and stared coldly at Derek, waiting. His mom went on doing the dishes.

Derek stared back for a moment, his eyes slightly unfocused, as if he was trying to figure out what he was going to say and having a hard time doing that. Finally, he said, "That wasn't what you thought."

John leaned over. He would be fucking _gleeful_ if he ended up believing Derek, but he doubted that was going to happen. "Then what was it?"

Derek sighed and looked away for a second in mild embarrassment, "Look-"

John pushed himself away and held up his hands, "Don't say anything," he hissed, "Or I'll fucking yell. I'm done. You hear me? _Done. _Leave it be. I don't wanna hear about it." His voice was rising with each word, and John had to struggle to keep himself sounding casual. He hated that. He wanted to lace his words with as much malice as he could pack in, he was so mad. He'd _ordered_ Derek to keep it quiet. Not to say a single word about this, so John could just forget about the whole thing, as though that were possible. And here Derek was, trying damage control for his fucking mistakes.

Sarah turned to them and said, "Something the matter?"

"Nothing," John said. Derek looked over and nodded his head, agreeing with the teenager. Derek looked a bit resigned, as if he'd been expecting John's response. Well, good for him. Sarah looked at the two for a moment before shrugging and returning to the dishes. John took the opportunity to leave. He wanted to sleep so bad right now, it wasn't even funny.

As he walked down the corridor and up the stairs to his room, he felt mild pride at having gotten through that without much fuss. He'd still gotten mad, of course, but really, what couldn't make him mad today? What couldn't make him break down and scream his head off today? He was such an emotional powder-keg after today's shit, the slightest thing could just set him off. BOOM.

John walked into his room and quickly changed into his night clothes. He got in bed and laid there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to overcome him. Nice, good sleep. He exhaled and turned in bed, shutting his eyes tight. He wanted so badly for tomorrow. Tomorrow promised purpose and not drama. It promised a clearer mind. It promised a chance for him to look back on today and know that he'd since pulled himself together. Tomorrow would be better than today.

Right?


	8. Of Mice and Men

**Flight is Right**

Author's Note: I don't know what to write here. This chapter took on a mind of its own, and after writing for a bit it felt almost inappropriate to write up a lengthy action sequence in following that. Next chapter should resolve the gradual set-up I've been doing.

Chapter Eight: ...Of Mice and Men...

John Connor grimaced in pain as the bus screeched to a sudden halt. Curses and exclamations filled the vehicle as the bus driver started honking aggressively. He was leaning half-way out the side window of the bus, screaming his head off at "lousy kids!" The people around John didn't seem inclined to disagree with that sentiment, given the fact that some of them were loudly fantasizing about how they would rip the kids skulls out and shit down their necks. That, of course, was just one opinion. Other's held that shoving brooms up their asses would be a whole lot better.

John, personally, thought brooms were too good for the lousy kids, and if he was _forced_ to use brooms in any way on them, it would be penetration through some other orifice. Maybe the nostrils? He stared outside the window closest to him, watching the kids --middle schoolers, likely-- trot down the rather busy road. Little shitters. Boy, did he have a headache. It was like someone was stabbing him with an ice-pick, like Trotsky or something. He'd woken up feeling as if a hippo had sat on his head the whole night. A hippo which had proceeded to drive an ice-pick into his skull. Right. Breakfast hadn't improved matters much, and neither did any pain killing medicine. Needless to say, it didn't improve his mood much from yesterday. With hope, nothing would happen to make sure that foul mood was realized. God...if today was like yesterday, he'd lose it. Absolutely.

But he was steeling himself. They were going out on a mission today. Purpose. Chances were that nothing exciting would happen, but it didn't matter to John. Just doing something that was part of their eventual goal towards stopping Skynet was a-ok in his book. Nothing could get him down today with that in mind. Well...almost nothing. Always _was_ something, after all. Something you hadn't expected and couldn't prepare for.

Cameron Phillips was sitting next to him. They were in a public bus, which was filled to the top with various commuters and students heading off to their respective work places and schools. The bus driver, after sending one last glare towards the kids who'd nearly caused an accident of rather unfortunate magnitude, got the bus back into its steady rumbling down the road, disgorging passengers where ever they requested it. John slumped back against his seat and carefully replaced the small iPod headphone against his ear. The iPod was a blue little thing that was apparently all the rage nowadays, replacing the MP3 players John had grown so accustomed to. It was a lot more convenient, that was for sure. John had salvaged this from a dumpster close to where they'd appeared after traveling to 2007. It had been broken, of course, but that was hardly a big obstacle for him. The thing had a rather sophisticated software that made John wish he'd been around to see it come out on the market. After a few minutes, he tore the headphone out of his ear and let it fall to his waist, deciding that the self-depracation of The Smiths wouldn't improve his mood much. He settled his head against the seat and stared up at the ceiling. The gentle thrumming of the bus, whenever it wasn't stopping short or anything, was pretty soothing. That helped assuage his headache somewhat.

Cameron was silent. Her head was turning back and forth, scanning the bus for possible threats. It was always "possible threats". John wished that one Terminator in his life would just admit that they were programmed to be paranoid. That would be the day...Well, that would probably be the day he wouldn't have to worry about robotic uprisings anymore.

A passenger signaled for a stop. The bus driver brought the vehicle up to the right lane and the bus came to a gradual halt. Four people started piling out, with about six coming in to take their places. Busy day. One person was yammering in Russian into a cellphone as he came in. He wore a rather understated tuxedo and had a ponytail. His face was generally Slavic, with little sign of other racial influences. The guy took a seat next to John. For some reason...

John, suddenly remembering something, turned to Cameron and said, "Hey."

"How's your head?" she asked, turning to meet him. She even looked faintly concerned, but that was probably just an act. Certain things provoked a certain stimulus out of her, and a lot of it felt manufactured. And sometimes he was surprised by how real it seemed. How real it _was?_ Man...

John blinked, not having been expected that as a counter greeting. Being reminded of his headache only made it throb a bit harder. Thanks a lot..."It's ok. I wanted to ask you something."

"What's up?" she asked.

John grinned and chuckled a bit, "Man, that throws me off."

"What does?"

"Whenever you say something like 'what's up.' It feels...I dunno. Real."

"I'm real, John," Cameron reminded him, sounding somewhat confused.

"I know you are...I meant like a real girl, not, y'know, a...Terminator." He felt a bit silly saying that on a public bus, like he was openly divulging something embarrassing, like that she put used gum in her mouth. Couldn't exactly call her anything else, though. He didn't like saying the word "machine." It felt like...he was insulting her, or something. He didn't want to come across to her like that.

John expected her to remind him that she was an advanced model, built for higher capability infiltration techniques. Then maybe she'd do something to freak him the _hell out_, like kiss him or something, just to emphasize her point. He frowned with the ease at which the words "kiss me" materialized in his head. Goddamn...

She didn't kiss him. What she did do was grin and say, "Thanks." John stared at her, his mouth falling open very slightly. "What did you want to know?"

John jumped a bit, suddenly remembering what had caused him to start this conversation in the first place. He got side-tracked so easily, it made him wonder how he was supposed to become an epic military commander, "Uh, yeah. I found some strange stones outside the other day. In the backyard." He looked at her, and was surprised to see recognition in Cameron's expression. She knew what he was talking about alright. That was...well, disconcerting, actually. He'd been hoping she had no idea...John frowned and resumed, "Anyway, they had stuff written on them in Cyrillic."

It was the Russian dude getting on the bus that had jolted his memory about the Russian written language. That was one thing off his mind at least. Now to see if Cameron could possibly explain it...He looked at her and decided to say nothing more. She obviously knew what he was talking about.

"I put them there," Cameron said, nodding.

Crap. That wasn't what he'd wanted to hear. If she did that, then...well, he didn't know _what_ it meant. Nothing that could be explained too easily, he expected. Nevertheless, John pressed the metaphorical revolver against his head and pressed the trigger, hoping not to get a bullet: "Why?"

She was silent for about a second. "I'll tell you," she said. John leaned forward, his headache temporarily forgotten..."Later," she concluded. _Bang! _

John glared at her and shook his head, "See, no, no. That's not..." He sighed and struggled to say something convincing to her. He came up with nothing and settled for making a vaguely scoffing noise.

"It's not what you wanted to hear," Cameron said, and she was fucking right, "But I'd rather not say right this moment."

John sighed, "Secrets aren't cool, Cam."

"This one is," she said simply, and John could only think _How?!_ He rubbed his forehead absently, looking slightly pissed off. She smiled mischievously, and John was too wrapped up in what they were talking about to even process the magnitude of that.

"I order you to tell me," John tried.

"I don't take orders from you," Cameron reminded him.

Maybe he oughta get mad, instead of just faintly annoyed with her. That wouldn't be helpful, though. It would make him look petulant, and then he'd feel like shit after something like that and- He grimaced and halted the pity train before it could leave the goddamned station. So messed up.

John sighed again, "You're sure it's not important?"

"I'm sure," Cameron confirmed, "And I'll tell you what it is later."

"Fine," John growled. He turned away. "...better be good."

Cameron had nothing to say about that. He idly considered giving her the silent treatment again, as he had yesterday. Why bother, though? It wouldn't faze her. John was forgetting, of course, Cameron's reaction to said silent treatment yesterday, during which she had talked to herself and clearly waited for a response. And that she'd _had_ a reaction when he never answered. It really never occurred to him that, in some warped fashion, he had gotten her slightly angry. John turned away from her and looked towards the front of the bus. The Russian guy was still talking on his cellphone while idly scratching some facial hair on his chin. He seemed a bit harried. John knew a bit of Russian, but not enough to follow what he was hearing, and at such a quick pace. He was about to turn away when he heard "Forsythe." John did his level best to keep his head from whipping around toward the dude in mute surprise. His level best wasn't good enough. He stared at the man, who was only sitting two or three feet away from him with widening eyes. It couldn't be. He must have heard wrong, misconstrued what the guy was really...The guy suddenly looked at John and cocked his head in a fast, jerking motion; _Buzz off._

John turned away, trying to look uninterested. The man stared at him for a moment longer, his eyes going somewhat narrow in suspicion, and then resumed his conversation. John stayed where he was and fiddled idly with the iPod cord, trying to think. Ok, ok...The guy had said "Forsythe." He was sure of that. How to react, though? He sat there for a moment, grimacing slightly as his headache returned in full force. What the hell could he...

_Oh, right! _He thought suddenly. He quickly touched Cameron's forearm, causing her to sharply turn toward him. She made a questioning noise. John pointed to the guy and whispered, "He mentioned Daniel...on his phone-"

Cameron raised her hand before he could do anything else and turned her left ear toward him. John cocked an eyebrow, "Cam?"

She didn't respond. Probably doing her hearing thing. Good. Did she even understand Russian, though? He friggin' hoped so. John stole a glance toward the guy. Man, if he had actually been talking about Daniel Forsythe then they were in luck. Who knew what they could find out from someone close to this guy? Anything, that was what. And "anything" was better than the "nothing" they currently were aware of...

Cameron was silent for a few minutes, which evidently confirmed that she did understand Russian, or that she shortly would. John was forced to sit there and look casual as they neared his high school, which he was rapidly losing interest in actually going to. He cast an apprehensive glance toward the guy next to him. He was still conversing in Russian, but seemed a little less frantic that he had been a few minutes ago. He was smiling and waving his arms around a bit, as if the guy (or gal) he was talking to was right in front of him. John didn't hear anything more about "Forsythe," but what did that prove?

He turned and looked over to Cameron. She had that blank, glazed over expression on her face, and appeared to be looking straight ahead without any comprehension for what was going on around her. Well, he certainly wasn't gonna pass the time with her when she was like that...The fact that she was still listening probably meant that she'd picked up on something interesting. John had mixed feelings about that, now that he thought about it. As much as he wanted to pursue all the leads they found regarding this mission they were going on later, he still kind of wanted to go to school and just have a fairly normal day. More to the point, he wanted to reconcile with Cheri Westin before things got irrevocably damaged between them, and he really, really didn't want that. If he ended up having to do something else, that little spate between them yesterday could grow into...well, a thing between them. A very bad thing. Man, that'd be awful. He really liked her. He knew this was more important, though, at least in the long term...and that didn't necessarily mean he felt good about it.

Someone signaled for the bus driver to stop. John wouldn't have bothered caring if that someone hadn't happened to be Cameron. He gawked at her as she started to sling her bag around her arm and stood up in preparation to get off the bus.

"What're you doing?" John hissed as he also stood up. He couldn't exactly do anything else. The bus prompter told them that they were nearing Campo de Cahuenga High School, which also happened to be a major transfer point, apparently. Cameron had lost the blank look on her face. Now she was all silent intensity as she stared at the Russian guy. He was also standing up and was moving toward the side-door of the bus, getting ready to step out. The cellphone was no longer attached to his right ear and he looked faintly annoyed with something. Cameron let out a slight chuckle as he went past, as if John had said something funny. As soon as he was past them her expression transformed back into that intenseness again. It was fucking creepy to look at, needless to say. She glanced at John and nodded her head slightly; they were gonna follow this guy. Oh, boy...

John merely nodded back, feeling a slight rush of excitement build up inside of him. This was pretty dangerous. Although John was the sort of guy who never judged a book by its cover (and boy did he pay whenever he did), this guy looked _connected_, and not in a good way. Anything could happen once he suspected the two of tailing him, as he inevitably would. John was excited all the same. The promise of action always did that to him. This would be the first potential guns-a-blazing encounter he'd be in since the incident with the coltan, and that had left him, not to mince words, scared out of his fucking mind. Of course, this situation looked less likely to produce killer Terminators, Cameron not withstanding. Speaking of which, Cameron was giving the Russian a fishy sort of stare, as if she somehow recognized him.

The bus came to a halt. John, Cameron, and the Russian dude stepped off the bus and were deposited onto the sidewalk. They were on a street that was lined with all sorts of businesses, most notably a law firm and some smaller places, like a deli and a pizza place. On the other side of the street was a large plaza that was also host to a variety of businesses. Between the blocks was the main street which would have brought them directly on to the high school. Cars and other vehicles were busily racing forward and back down this street, making huge _whoosh_ing noises as they went. This was a fairly popular area, since it was so close to the school. Seniors were around here all day, or so John had been told. As a sophomore he wasn't allowed outside the school unless he was eating lunch, and that was still on the actual grounds.

The guy started walking south as soon as they got off the bus, his hands tucked tightly into his pants. Other than looking generally annoyed over something, he didn't appear to be suspicious of John and Cameron. John lingered uncertainly at the bus stop for a moment and looked at Cameron. She was staring off at the man's retreating back, but wasn't moving either. They stood there for about a minute, and John absently started moving his mouth up and down while gesturing animatedly with his right hand. Had to make it seem as if they were talking, or whatever to throw off suspicion. When he felt that the Russian man had moved off to a far enough distance, he turned to Cameron and cleared his throat. She looked over to him.

"Mind filling me in?" he asked.

"He's a member of the Russian mafia," Cameron explained, and John felt as if a sledgehammer had just come down over his head. MAFIA? "He's apparently providing some sort of service to Daniel Forsythe through a man named Sarkissian." She looked at John and seemed apologetic, "That's all I was able to get from his conversation, the rest was irrelevant."

"Could this...Sarkissian be the guy in the photograph?" John asked, but his voice was getting lower with each word. _Mafia._ This wasn't good.

"Maybe," Cameron said, and she looked back toward the Russian mobster. "We should interrogate him."

"Yeah," John agreed. They started walking. The man was already several dozen feet away from them, which was just good enough to tail without looking suspicious. What could the mob want from Forsythe? It didn't make any sense, or at least to John it didn't. If the mafia was involved, he gathered, then that meant Forsythe was definitely involved in something shady, and that could mean just about anything. Goddamn, but that was a stroke of luck, managing to get on the _same_ bus as a guy working for Forsythe. Sarah would definitely be happy.

John decided to pose the question to Cameron, "What do you think this means?"

She gave him a side-long look, "There's a pattern," she said. "You remember when I played hooky on Friday?"

John nodded. He'd gone to school that day instead of her and heard nothing but complaints from his teachers, who felt as though some sort of Cameron shaped void had materialized in their classrooms. A lot of them really liked her. John grimaced slightly as he remembered that.

"Sarah sent me to locate Dimitri Shipkov."

"Right, the guy who stole the Turk."

Cameron nodded. They tried not to look at each other as they talked, keeping their eyes fixed on the Russian as he strolled leisurely down the sidewalk ahead of them. They were moving past the pizzeria right now, "As you know, I managed to eventually get that photograph. That was all Dimitri could provide, and so I left..." she paused and looked toward the mafioso. John stared at her and cocked an eyebrow. Everything she'd said up to this point was common knowledge to him, courtesy of his mother. Apparently she'd neglected to tell him something, though.

"Yeah?" John said conversationally, trying to get things moving along. He didn't really like it whenever she paused like that. It seemed way too imprecise of her, the fact that she had to pause like that. Like she had to think about what she was going to say when her chip could process information, he was sure, way faster than that. What did that fucking mean, then? John rubbed his forehead again, pushing a few bangs of hair out of his eyes. He looked over at her and sighed to himself.

Cameron looked at him. "I feel bad about this. Is that ok?"

John blinked and his mouth fell open. Not in...horror or anything. He wasn't horrified in the least, not even disturbed. He..._Whoa. _John's legs started shaking a bit, and he grunted as he nearly tripped over a stray rock, but he didn't give a shit about that. He suddenly looked away from Cameron and at the Russian they were following, because he didn't know what he'd do if he kept facing her as she faced _him._ He found it really hard to concentrate on the Russian right at that moment, though. He blinked againAndthat was why she'd paused. Wasn't imprecision, or like a quirk, or something. She just felt _bad_ about something. A perfectly..._normal reaction._ It wasn't horror in him, nor was he disturbed by those words, those fucking improbable words. It was awe. He was...in _awe._

He realized he must have looked really out of it right then, as Cameron reached forward and touched his neck. Of himself, he brought the side of his head down on her hand, while slumping his shoulders just a tad. She brought her hand away slightly and curved it against his hair. This...that was... Christ, what...what to say? What in her programming compelled her to make an observation like that? What in her programming _allowed_ her to _be_ like that? They both froze and stared at each other for a moment. Cameron brought her hand down and looked at him. He couldn't tell anything much from her expression, but...

What was Cheri compared to this, this synergy that they had? This was something...it was a fucking experience. He couldn't speak. She was just...there, right there in front of him. Doing things to him. Why did she do these things to him? Why did she make him _feel_ that way? Why did he respond like this? He was a fucking human, she was a machine, a KILLER. Programmed to complete assignments and just shut down, like Carter the Terminator had shut down a week ago. Carter, who'd killed two men with a pistol, saying "Thank you for your service." He went into fucking screensaver mode, like a computer. And a computer doesn't try to fucking comfort you. It can try to kill you if that's what it's programmed for. It can say "Sorry for the inconvenience," and you know it doesn't actually MEAN that. It's programmed to say that, because an electronic jolt goes through the motherboard, which tells the monitor to throw up a screen that says "BLANK BLANK BLANK We apologize for the inconvenience. BLANK." A computer can kill you, that was a simple task requiring absolutely no thought other than strategic planning. What a computer COULDN'T do was COMFORT you...love you...it shouldn't make you FEEL a certain WAY, as a human was fucking able to. When machines could love, they wouldn't be machines anymore. They'd be fucking no different, in mindset, from humans. The guy was getting further away. John didn't give a shit. Cameron wasn't even looking toward him. Her eyes were anchored on John's, and her eyes were wide, and she looked apologetic, and she looked so fucking _real._

John was shaking all over now. He was suddenly aware that...he...he wanted to fucking kiss her. Oh god...oh god... He wanted to kiss her, like a human. As a human would do with another person who was regular, who was real, who was all mind and brain and emotion. She was _like that all of a sudden! _He wanted to touch her...wanted to embrace her...She _knew. _She knew how he was feeling right now, she could just tell, he knew she could. God, he felt like crying again. Out of what? Happiness? More like...revelation, maybe? Revelation at what? What did this mean to him? How could he wade through his emotions and get right to the center of it all?

He'd have to ask her.

He couldn't. He was scared of going further, because he didn't know what would happen. He was used to knowing the future: I am John Connor, supreme commander and best hope for all of humankind. I can unite us all and lead us to victory against the machines. What was this? What would happen as a result of this knowing? He felt _scared_, damnit. _Do I love you? Can I love you? Is this even possible? _

Man, how did they get here?

There was something like a roar in John's ears as he pulled himself forward, a long, loud roar, like a whooshing noise. He pulled himself away from all of this. It felt bitter. And yet he felt relieved at the same time. That roar wasn't there. It was metaphorical. And he heard it just the same.

"Yeah," he said, a hitch in his voice. He looked over to her and smiled weakly. "Yeah, it's ok."

Cameron stared at him for a moment, her eyes terribly distant. He wondered...if she would ignore what had just happened. What could she possibly be feeling right now? Maybe she was scared, like he was. He thought that was likely, even in spite of the mantra Sarah Connor had drilled in his head; _"They don't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And they absolutely will not stop until you are dead._" But that was _wrong._ That was _wrong._ She said "I feel bad." PITY. Remorse?

She said, almost absently, "I left Dimitri and his sister to die after I obtained the photograph. They were terminated by Russian mafia as I was leaving his apartment. I recognize that man. So there's a pattern, yes."

"And you felt bad," John said, "Because you left them to die." Cameron looked...almost sad that he'd reminded her of it. Oh god.

"It wasn't part of my mission, but, when I looked back...I don't know. I felt bad. I feel negatively about leaving them there," she looked forward. "We have to interrogate this man." She gestured to Russian, almost as an after-thought.

They started walking again, jogging even, to catch up with the guy, who was a ways off at this point. When they got within a few meters of the guy, they stopped again and made as if to check a store front.

"John, I'm trying to understand what just happened."

"Me too." He started crying. He couldn't help it. It wasn't sadness, or grief. It was the feeling you get when you take on some new responsibility, and you're too afraid to accept it.

"I'm not sure if I should." They started walking again.

He couldn't respond. He coughed a bit and tried to stop himself. They...they had to follow the guy...that was important. Cameron laid a hand on his shoulder. He sniffled, "I don't think we should." He inhaled sharply and wiped himself up. He stopped and looked at her, "Let's forget about it...for now."

She considered this for a moment and finally nodded, "You're right," She seemed eager to agree with that. "Let's keep going, come on."

John nodded at this and started walking again with her. They had stuff to do, after all.

...Good.


	9. Talking

**Flight is Right**

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hilton hotel chain. Since I don't live in Los Angeles, I've taken some obvious liberties with geography in regards to the Hilton.

Chapter Nine: Talking 

"My ass is sore."

Sarah Connor turned to Derek Reese and stared at him in dull annoyance. An uncertain grimace appeared on her face, as if she didn't know whether it'd be better to look angry or amused. Derek peered back unflinchingly, and he wondered what course she'd eventually settle on. They were sitting on a remarkably uncomfortable wooden bench just outside of the downtown Hilton hotel. It was a fancy, several story high place called "Checkers," although why they had deigned to call it that was frankly beyond Derek. There were days when he was almost certain that Skynet went insane with rage at humanity because it could not understand marketing. Anyway, the bench was fucking uncomfortable, and Derek had been sitting on it for the better part of two hours, waiting for Daniel "Yellow Hat" Forsythe to come walking out of the place.

Needless to say, he was getting sick of it. Sitting there, simply waiting until Sarah decided it was time to gather John and Cameron was not his idea of time well spent.

Sarah sighed dejectedly, evidently deciding that getting angry would accomplish little here, "Then stand up," she said, and pointed skyward for emphasis.

Derek shook his head. No, damnit. She didn't _understand, _"Getting up won't make my ass feel any better," he said.

Sarah closed her eyes and started rocking her head back and forth, "Then why are you complaining?" she asked, eyes still closed. She was the sort of woman who had difficulty letting things go. And when you lived the sort of life she led, who could really blame her? Pursuing things, worrying over things, getting all of the very last details into her head and keeping it there...it was in her blood now. Even with trivial stuff like this, she was relentless.

Derek shrugged, "Cause I've got nothing else better to do."

Sarah punched him hard on the shoulder, causing him to flinch back in pain. Sarah was also very much prone to violence. Goddamn, but she packed a load! He grimaced and softly caressed his throbbing bone, "Ow," he murmured. He briefly considered punching back. That would start a fight neither of them would soon forget, the outcome of which was rather sketchy, as far as Derek was concerned. He decided against it and simply sat there, looking annoyed.

The bench they were sitting on was a few meters away from the front entrance to the Hilton. It was one of many similar benches occupying a grassy, rectangularly shaped courtyard at the foot of the building. In the middle of the courtyard was a small fountain, whose cherub-esque statue was spouting amazingly blue, sparkling water from its mouth. There weren't a lot of people within the courtyard, save two little boys who were tossing liberal amounts of change into the fountain, and a guy in a black suit who stood near the entrance to the hotel, smoking a cigarette. And there was Derek and Sarah, of course. The courtyard eventually gave way to cement sidewalk and then the street, which inevitably led to similar drops of pseudo-paradise elsewhere in the business-friendly section of L.A.. Skyscrapers with rows and rows of mirror-like windows seemed to completely surround your field of view, any way you turned.

"We can only wait for John and Cameron right now, so stop whining," Sarah said.

"It's really not that hard to break into some guys room without help from your fifteen year old son and a cyborg," Derek pointed out.

"It's not that hard to get caught while the cameras are still operating, too," Sarah retorted, "And it's especially not hard to have the cops after you when they look at the evidence and say 'Isn't that guy wanted for murder?'"

Derek raised his eyebrows charitably, "I guess you've got something there," he mumbled. He glanced at her and frowned, "You aren't good with computers?"

"I hate computers," she said, rather unnecessarily. Even so, her tone left no room for argument. And he didn't want to argue. He felt exactly the same way, after all. He smirked snidely to himself. He wasn't good with computers either.

"What the hell do we do, then? Twiddle our thumbs until 12:00 rolls around?"

Sarah looked pensive for a moment. "Well, we already staked the place out-"

"And determined where the security room is; second floor, lightly guarded-"

"But we didn't find out where Daniel's room is-"

"While also finding that the hotel staff is really suspiciously sketchy on details surrounding his residence here-"

"And otherwise wasted our time pretending to admire the marble pillars in the lobby."

"And then...we went outside to wait for Forsythe," Derek concluded. "And here we are. Sitting around, still waiting."

Sarah nodded, "Right." She blinked after a moment and looked as though she were actually considering this for the first time.

"I really, really doubt he's gonna show," Derek said with the cynical air of one accustomed to waiting for something that wasn't going to happen. As per usual, he chose not to dwell on that. He wanted to live in the now, not in the future he'd left. "And even if he does, what difference would it make?"

Sarah narrowed her eyes, "Well, you never know. He could-"

"I'm hungry," Derek interrupted suddenly, holding his hand up.

"Some food _would_ be nice."

They looked at each other and smirked in near perfect unison. Derek liked that, and he found himself wondering if she and his brother had any moments like that during their short time together.

"Let's go," Sarah said while standing up.

Derek grunted a bit in pain as he hopped up from the bench: his ass kinda hurt.

After deciding that the high class restaurant within the hotel (very originally called "Checkers") was _way_ above their price range, Derek and Sarah settled on a southwestern place a block or so away from the hotel. The place had dim lights and was full of chatting executives who'd let their suits loose for a while to experience meals that were priced below fifty dollars a person. Weird, colorful pictures depicting disembodied guitars adorned the walls. Fifties rock music poured from speakers hidden in the ceiling.

Derek and Sarah were sitting at a booth close to the entrance, next to one of the disembodied guitars. It had bright red lips and seemed to stare at you with its disturbingly huge eyes. Derek cast a wary glance at it before returning to his soft shelled taco, which was filled with ground beef, lettuce, and some other spices he couldn't even pronounce. It was delicious, anyway, and incredibly messy. Derek thought he was in heaven.

Sarah stared at him for a few seconds in silent wonderment before saying, "How many is that again?"

Derek's eyes flicked up to her a moment, and he frowned, "Uh...four?" He took another bite and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

She nodded absently and looked down at her own taco, which was half-way eaten. It was all she'd had up to this point, and Derek thought it would probably be rude if he asked her for it, much as he wanted to. Eating good food again was like...an awakening for him. Things were _good_ until you lost them...and when you got them back, you realized just how _great_ they actually were. He reached across the table and snatched a nacho out of black plastic basket...thing. It was shaped vaguely like a guitar, which prompted Derek to give it a double-take. He scarfed the nacho down and sighed contentedly.

"So what do you think?" Derek asked Sarah.

She knew what he was talking about. She shrugged, "I think we'll be out of there in twenty minutes, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared."

"No," Derek said, "It doesn't. Still, I doubt we'll find anything really sinister in his room. If we're lucky we'll find some, I dunno, letters or something."

Sarah grunted and held up a finger, "Now, supposing we do find something..."

Derek held up his own finger and made a gun-sign gesture. He cocked the finger back forcefully and said, "Pow." He held that pose for a moment in silence before quietly taking a sip from his soda.

Sarah didn't laugh, "I know you have a really hard time understanding this, but let me make things clear --again--: we can't just go around killing people we only _think_ are involved with Skynet."

Derek did have a hard time understanding that. More to the point, he disregarded it. Andy Goode's blood on his hands was indication enough of that disregard. Sarah always had murder in her eyes: she was the most intense person Derek had ever encountered, often rivaling the single-minded purpose of the machines he'd been at war with for half his life. Even so, he doubted that Sarah had ever killed anyone in her life. That was ok. Her methods worked. But sometimes, when the fate of _billions_ depended on the death of a particular person(s)...Derek found it hard to keep his morals in check. Did that mean Sarah was stronger than he was? More mature? Wiser? He didn't know, and frankly...he didn't care.

Derek had told Sarah that he didn't murder Andy. That he found the man who would come to take on the alias "Billy Wisher" dead. That had started as a lie. Now Derek viewed it as karma. Sarah had neglected to tell Derek anything concrete about Kyle, not the least that he'd fathered John. _That_ particular revelation had hurt...badly. It made him feel like the odd man out, or something, as though he were fully expendable. He didn't know why she wanted it that way, just as much as he didn't fully know why he kept the fact that he'd murdered Goode a secret. Well, now they _both_ had secrets. Tit for tat. That suited Derek just fine.

He also couldn't say anything like "you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs", but that would only get her suspicious. He settled on shrugging and saying, "We may have to. I'm not saying we should..." he trailed off and spread his hands. He thought that was reasonable enough to leave the possibility of offing Forsythe open.

But Sarah shook her head, "Killing solves nothing. You hear me? Nothing."

Derek stared at her for a moment, not realizing that sauce was dribbling down his chin a bit, making him look faintly ridiculous. He said, "Prove it."

She nodded easily and said, "Does the name 'Miles Dyson' mean anything to you?"

Derek nodded, "Yeah, worked at Cyberdyne, why- Wait...a second..." His eyes widened as he remembered something. But that didn't matter, he shook his head, "Never mind, forget it." They couldn't possibly be related...

Sarah cocked an eyebrow, as much a response to that comment as any. Derek frowned and said, "One time I got a really bad plasma burn. Put me out for months. Kyle and Sayles --he was, uh, at the safe-house-- dragged me back to base and got some doctor to take a look at me. His name was Dyson. Danny Dyson."

Sarah's mouth fell open; she knew who he was referring to, alright, "Jesus, that must be his son...That's amazing."

Derek shrugged and finished off his taco with a few more bites, "This shit happens for some reason. I still don't get how this time traveling stuff produces so many fucking coincidences either. What about Miles, though?"

Sarah told him, much to Derek's ever increasing shock; Miles Bennett Dyson was the original creator of the SIC-NORAD Skynet defense network, which had originally been activated on August 4th, 1997. She told him about the T-800 Model 101 sent back to kill Sarah in 1984, and how that Terminator's chip served as the basis on which Skynet was to be born, as foretold by the re-programmed T-800 sent back to protect John. That, in 1994, she had sworn to kill Miles Dyson to prevent Skynet from coming into existence.

"And you killed him?" Derek asked. It's certainly what he would have done. Any _sane_ person would have shot the living shit out of that guy. He fully expected Sarah to admit to killing him and was now living in regret for having done so, that it was a weight on her that couldn't be lifted, yadda yadda. Derek was still trying to get around the fact that apparently Skynet should have come online _earlier_ than 2011, and that it should have been built under different circumstances. That was..._very_ good. Although Skynet had survived the attempts on its "life" (that was fucking ironic, trying to destroy Skynet before it came into existence. That was fucking great), it's existence _had_ been postponed, meaning it wasn't impossible to stop it completely.

Sarah shook her head, "No. I didn't. I couldn't."

"How'd you postpone Skynet then? I mean, the fact that it should have come online in 1997 means that Miles must have died."

"He did," Sarah said, "But he did it to himself."

"That's not surprising," Derek said darkly. He still remembered Andy nodding to him, just before they went through the time displacement field. The guy had known what Derek intended to do. He'd accepted it. Welcomed it with a smile. As much a form of suicide as any.

"He helped us destroy Cyberdyne's headquarters. He was still inside when it exploded."

"Wait...so you got him to help you," Derek said, connecting the dots.

"Exactly," Sarah said, nodding grimly, "And that's why we can't just kill Daniel Forsythe if he's involved with Skynet." She leaned forward and resumed eating her taco, her point made. Derek stared at her for a few seconds before dropping his eyes. That was...well, food for thought, to say the least. He suddenly _felt_ like a murderer as much as he knew he was one. At the time it felt like retribution, like Andy was paying for his sins, or something. But now, after hearing about Miles...

But Miles had still died. And his knowledge, which would have gone into making Skynet, was destroyed utterly, along with his lab equipment. Simply convincing a person not to do something wasn't insurance enough. Death was the ultimate guarantee against _anything._ It was what made this war so precarious in the first place. Destroy John Connor and you get a destroyed human race. Destroy Skynet and you get no war. Death was a fucking necessity here, and Derek was _damned_ if he'd be guilted into misjudging his own actions simply because it could have worked some other way. If he concluded that Forsythe _was_ involved, the guy was dead.

Not feeling hungry anymore, Derek shoved his basket thing away from him. The gigantic eyes of the disembodied guitar continued to stare unrelentingly at him, red lips glistening. A country singer was busily intoning _"More and mo-o-o-ore, I'm forgettin' my tears"_ to jaunty music over the ceiling speakers. Derek sighed and decided to try and start a more up-beat conversation, "So, uh..." He blinked.

Damnit, that was quick. As he sat there, fumbling, Sarah beat him to the punch with something he would have otherwise left unspoken. And unthought...and undone, for that matter. "Why don't you tell me about what's going on between you and John?" She was looking at him severely, her mouth set into a thin line.

_"And oh, how I tri-i-i-i-ied...to keep you by my si-i-i-ide..."_

Derek just about slapped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from blurting "I don't know what you're talking about!" in a hilariously (not to him, of course) shrill voice. Keeping his face impassive, he said, "What?"

"In case you hadn't noticed," Sarah said, leaning forward, "I'm his mother. I know when something's bothering him."

Man, she always said the right things. Derek gleefully seized on her last sentence, "Oh, I'm guessing something happened at his school. Shook him up a bit."

"He clobbered some kid over a girl," Sarah said evenly. "His guidance counselor called me up last night."

Derek blinked. He found himself saying, "Uh, and you neglected to bring him up on this...why?"

_"And oh, how I cry...when you said good bye..."_

Sarah sighed. Her hand idly grasped her straw and pulled it up from her soda. She stabbed it down again and missed the hole. As she did this, she said, "I expected him to tell me first."

"Why's that?"

"He used to tell me everything, when we were living with Charley. Admitted to everything, every cheated test, every time he cursed out a teacher...And things that weren't even school related. Personal matters, you know."

Derek knew. He nodded to show he understood. He made himself look sympathetic. To a certain degree he was, but he mostly wanted to just steer the conversation away from the "Derek" part.

Sarah shook her head and dropped the straw, looking well, exasperated, but there was something else there. Something a lot more subtle. This was...difficult for her to admit to, and she was hiding it well, "I don't know what happened...Maybe it was leaving Charley, maybe it was finding out that we're still at war...Either way, he got a lot more..." she opened and closed her hand a bit, struggling to articulate herself.

_"Day by da-a-a-ay...I've been losing my w-a-a-a-ay..."_

"Depressed?" Derek supplied.

"I don't like to think about that," Sarah said quietly. "Whatever it is, he...just doesn't confide in me anymore."

Derek sighed to himself, dully realizing that _he_ was the only person Sarah could really talk about this to. Their pet Terminator wouldn't understand, and her talking to John would be more like a confrontation than a confession. He understood this. It didn't mean he liked it. Sarah was staring down at the straw she'd dropped. There was a sort of distant transparency to them that told how deep in thought she was. Maybe this was the first time she'd actually considered this.

"I'm sure it's not your fault," he said.

Sarah shrugged almost nonchalantly, "I never said it was...But it's true," she stared at him for a moment and pointed, "...and I'm just trying to find out why."

_Uh-oh._

"Which leads us back to square one," Sarah said. "What happened between you and John?"

Derek leaned his head forward, "You tell me, cos' I don't know."

She narrowed her eyes, "I heard you two talking last night."

_Damnit._ He kept his face neutral. "Yeah?"

She nodded. She was getting angry now; he'd played dumb and now she was taking full advantage of it, "Yeah. Did you do something to him? Did you? Don't patronize me by saying you don't know." She held up a hand as she said that last part, halting Derek before he could interrupt her.

Derek leaned even further in, just about until his face was only two feet or so from her own. They stared at each other for a few seconds until Derek said, in a cool, even voice, "I touched his head."

Sarah raised an eyebrow and was silent for a moment; "His head?"

"Right, his head. I rubbed it. Y'know, like you would."

Sarah opened her mouth to respond when her wrist-watch started beeping. They both looked down at it reflexively.

**12:00 PM**

_"More and mo-o-ore...I'm forgettin' bout...you..."_

"To be continued, then," Derek said, smirking. He felt, to put it lightly, very much relieved-

Sarah gave him a side-long look as they started getting up, "Not likely. We can still talk as we walk to the damned car."

_Damn._

They didn't bother throwing their stuff out; they were in a hurry, after all. Derek and Sarah pushed the front door open and started fast-walking down the sidewalk, towards the jeep. Pedestrians went to and fro past them, all intent on some business or another. "Explain 'like I would'," Sarah said.

"Look," Derek said, whirling around to her, "I'm...He's not how I thought he'd be. I don't know, I guess he just needs a father in his life, or something," He was only half-lying, which was...surprising, to a certain degree. Did he really see himself as a fatherly figure? What could that...do? Was it familial obligation he felt as John's uncle, or something else?

"He has me," Sarah said, more than a bit defensively. It was a reflex answer.

Derek only shrugged. He felt like he ought to argue, but this wasn't the time, nor the place. And he didn't even know what he would say, because he had scarcely any idea why he felt this way himself. He had to think on this.

"Anyway, he took it the wrong way," Derek said, and he rolled his eyes, so that she could see it.

Sarah gave him a fishy look. After a moment, she smirked and said, "I'm not even gonna speculate."

"Just tell him I didn't mean it the way he thinks I did. He won't talk to me," Derek said.

Sarah was silent for a moment. They were just about on top of the jeep now, and Derek heard keys jingling in Sarah's pocket as she drew them out. They gave each other a moments glance before climbing into the vehicle.

"Well, at least now we have something in common," said Sarah.

John Connor stared at himself through the cracked, dingy mirror as he silently wiped his mouth.Two disembodied versions of himself stared back in perfect symmetry. Those reflections of himself were breathing heavily and looked harried with a combination of shock and guilt. They looked sick. Those reflections of himself had just vomited into the sink.

John looked down into said sink and absently turned the water on. It wasn't much of an improvement from the stuff already within, but it would get it looking...somewhat cleaner. He didn't fully understand why he bothered. The whole bathroom looked like it hadn't been used in over five years, much less properly maintained. Lights didn't work, the floor tiles came up with every step, and there were cracks in the wall. John had seen worse, which wasn't to say that he absolutely adored this bathroom. There were a lot of things he didn't find adoration-worthy right now, come to think of it.

"I should have fucking..." he mumbled to himself. "Just stopped it..." He sighed and leaned forward on the sink, listening intently as the water spilled out of the faucet at a steady pace. He felt sick to his stomach. It wasn't the feeling he sometimes got in the morning, when something he'd eaten the previous night chose to disagree with him. It was less physical, more mental than that. He was sick with thought. With consideration. It was a knot that continually twisted.

So far, this day had been just about as bad as yesterday. John wasn't sure if he should go nuts at this point, or start laughing his ass off. It was as if forces beyond him were conspiring to make him lose faith in all of this shit. To make him think...it wasn't worth it. Those thoughts were getting pretty fucking persuasive.

"John?" Cameron's voice said from beyond the door. He felt a mixture of wanting and revulsion when he heard her. It wasn't her fault...she was...just telling him the truth. Wasn't her fault.

"Give me a second..." he croaked.

"Are you ill?"

"It'll pass, Cam," John said. He switched off the sink and stared at his reflection for another second.

_Torturer. _He thought. Almost involuntarily, John narrowed his eyes and tried to look menacing. He wouldn't fool anyone. The Russian guy, Anton Pasternak, was dead. And John was a torturer.

**Playback. Audio File #68. Ref: Prime/Sub-Prime/Unit TOK-715-(SYSTEM NUM: DESIGNATE: Cameron) Interaction. **

**Playback:**

He awake?"

"I don't know."

"Try, uh..."

_Impact noise._

"Ahh...!"

"That worked."

"Thank you."

_five second interval_

"Who...who are you two?"

"Hey, buddy, what's your name?"

_three second interval_

"W-what?"

"Your name. I'm John."

"Uh...Anton. Anton Pasternak...did you...hit me or something?"

"Yes."

"_Cameron._"

"What?"

"Never mind...We're sorry we hit you, but we have a few questions. We promise to let you go afterward."

_five second interval_

"You little shits. You have no fucking clue how deep you two are. And _you._ I fuckin' remember you. You're that bitch who kicked me at that whore's dance studio."

"Yes, I'm that bitch."

"Dmitri's sister?"

"Yes."

"We put Dmitri and his sister in their place."

"Yeah, we fucking heard, you piece of shit. Murdering fuck."

"Piss off, you trash. Who're you working for? Hm? Tell me!"

"Hey, who's tied up here? Shut up."

"They'll come looking for me! And you'll end up just like Dmitri!"

"Cam, shut him up."

_fifteen second interval, interspersed with irrelevant cursing and insults, followed by incoherent grunting_

"Great. Now listen, Anton. I'll take the strap off when you're ready to answer a question. Ok?"

_muffled grunting_

"Uh-huh. Tell us about Forsythe. We know you're working for him."

_ripping noise_

"Ah...go to hell, boy."

_two minute interval interspersed with questioning from prime subject to sub-prime. Irrelevancies detected. Ignoring. _

"Look, we're gonna leave you here if you don't answer. No one would see you again. Cam?"

_ripping noise_

"Oy...I don't think you two understand. I'll give them your fucking descriptions, and then you'll be dead. Let me go, and I'll forget this shit happened."

"We just wanna know about the hotel...Just tell us."

"This is the best you can come up with? You may as well say 'please', you trash."

"Please." _(Laugh)_

"You're pathetic, you know? I'm not gonna tell you shit-"

"He's right."

_five second interval, interspersed with muffled grunting_

"What?"

"He's right. We should do something more effective."

_two second interval_

"W-what, you mean, torture or something?"

"Not you. I can take care of it."

"Cam, that's nuts. Don't say shit like that."

_muffled grunting_

"John, we need this information. We could be walking into a trap at the hotel."

"No, uh uh."

"John, step aside."

"No."

"John-"

_"No. _Don't...Cameron, just stop, ok?"

_three second interval_

"You may as well get started."

_five second interval_

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

_muffled grunting_

"Not everyone is allied to you, John. Sometimes you have to find things out from warlords, traders, other resistance groups."

"Are you saying- No. No fucking way."

_five second interval_

"John, go outside. I'll be done quickly."

"Shut the HELL UP. Please...Hey, what-"

_five second interval_

"...Oh fuck-LET GO- SHIT!"

_**PRIME THREATENED: TERMINATE. **__Ballistic noises. Two shots varied at about ten miliseconds apart. Sub-Prime deceased._

"John!"

"I-I'm..."

**End playback**

They were sitting on chairs near the front of the warehouse in silence. The place was a large, creaky construction that had enough graffiti around to indicate that it hadn't seen official use in years. The interior seemed to be fully coated in dust. No lights were working, but the ceiling had plenty of skylights around to let the sun shine through. It was just one big, open building with no rooms besides a bathroom. It was also empty, except for an over-turned chair and the corpse of Anton, a bullet through his head and chest.

John was staring ahead, looking out the nearby window, and trying to ignore a rather large, bloated fly that was busy waddling along the sill. A vacant lot was outside, which was just about as decrepit as the warehouse. He'd just gotten off the phone with his mother with an update on their location. Needless to say, she'd been more than a bit curious to know why they'd ended up about a mile away from the school. John could easily tell her why, and he could almost imagine the brightness in her eyes as he recited it, too. Telling her how things had ended up would be more...

He thought she would hit him, or something. God, that was a fuck up. Things had been going so fucking well until Cameron tried to push _torture_ on him, as if that was all well and good, all regular. That was upsetting enough as it was, considering the fact that only a half hour ago she had seemed so positively human. Enough so that John...

He didn't want to think about that. Even the way she'd recommended torturing Anton had come off as faintly un-Terminator-esque.

The thing that had him feeling _sick_ was the fact that...she'd mentioned something else. She said it so matter-of-factly. John's future self apparently used torture to get information from his human enemies. That was fucking nuts. How could he turn into that sort of person, no matter the circumstances? _You may as well get started._

That had been so fucking shocking, he doubted he'd even fully taken it all in yet. Right now he just felt sort of dull, like a bomb had gone off near him. The full reaction would come later. Anger, confusion. Maybe a little more, when he was by himself. Fate seemed determined to break his will. _I'm a torturer. I have feelings for the robot. I get crazy when I find out that my foil (Cheri) to the robot is already taken by some prick. _He...he understood his destiny. But why would that destiny be worth living if he turned out to be a horrible person, to be more associated with the machines than his own fighting men?

Why bother?

He sighed and looked over to Cameron. He felt like talking. They had to get details out of the way. "How'd he get loose?"

"You must have tied him up incorrectly," she said in monotone. She looked a bit distant. John absently rubbed his neck, which Anton had tried to stretch when he suddenly got loose. That was about a second before Cameron, using the Russian's gun, shot him.

"So do you think we would have gotten anything out of him anyway?"

She turned to him, "Yes. If you had just let me do what I needed to do, then yes."

John shook his head, almost violently, "Listen to me. I don't give a flying fuck about what my future self may or may not do --and God fucking help me _if_ I do-- but I don't condone that. I'm not that kind of person." He was shaking a bit all over and he finished talking, and he looked down. God, this was unreal. _Torture._ He wasn't like that. He wasn't like that. Not at all. He didn't wanna think about it any more. If he did, he'd be an even bigger mess.

Cameron said nothing. But she looked...hard to describe. Knowing?

John shuddered absently and said, "He was hiding something, anyhow. Did you check him for documents?"

Cameron nodded, "I tried the caller ID on his cellphone while you were feeling ill."

John ignored the last part. He really didn't wanna think about that crap. "And?"

"Nothing," she said, "There were no ID's. He must have deleted them before we intercepted him."

"Paranoid guy...well, what can we basically determine?"

"About the hotel mission?" she asked.

John waved his hand, "Whatever you wanna call it."

"We can infer that the hotel may or may not have mafia protection," Cameron said matter-of-factly, which only caused John to groan. Sarah was gonna kill him for not finding out more. "Other than that...not much." John sent her a look that closed her mouth before she could say anything more, which likely would have consisted of chastising him again. He looked back out the window and stared.

"John?"

He sighed. She just wasn't gonna let it go, then? "Yes?"

"I'm sorry," she stared at him and she looked genuinely apologetic.

He looked back toward her, his previous glare forgotten. She was such...He stopped himself from thinking. He just focused on what she'd said, not why she said it. Only on how it made him feel. Better. He just offered her a smile and said, "Thanks."

She nodded and turned back. He continued to look at her for a few seconds, thinking idly to himself. After a moment, he said, "After this thing is over...Let's just talk, y'know?"

"About what?"

He sighed, "I dunno. I just feel like...talking. About what's been going on. Just get it out, I guess. I'd feel better." He knew that wouldn't be the most pleasant thing in the world for him. You could say a lot of things you didn't want to admit to when you opened up like that. He knew that with his mother. Somehow he knew, though, that it would be better with Cameron. She was more involved in the happenings of this week than anyone else. It just felt right.

Cameron looked pensive for a moment, which caused John's mouth to fall open slightly in small pleasure. He was beginning to realize something. Yeah, she was attractive and all, and that was the thing that made her more of an interest to him in the first place...but when she started acting _real_...He realized that that was the draw she held for him. She was a mind. She learned, just as the T-800 had in the last few moments of its existence. Watching her act like a human did more to him than anything else, effected him in ways she normally wouldn't, couldn't when she was stoic and monotonous. And if she learned to _be_ instead of act...He didn't know how he'd react, to be honest, but he could obviously predict.

And still, that trump card falls into place: She was a machine. And sometimes she acted in ways that hurt him. He could have gone without the knowledge that, in the future, he would condone torture. That hurt him. A lot.

"Ok," she said, nodding. She looked as if she liked the idea...

There was a definite balance there, between being a fearless protector and having to deal with her expanding knowledge of humanity. A balance she was undoubtedly aware of.

John nodded back. God help him, he felt obligated to help her strike that balance.

And, if she wanted to...possibly help upset it.

Authors Note: Somebody tell me if I write WAAAY too much set-up. Heh.


	10. Close Call

**Flight is Right**

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.

Author's Note: Right, I'm officially guilty of writing _way_ too much set-up. I just hope I can make the hotel chapter really, really good.

Chapter Ten: Close Call

To say that Sarah Connor looked pissed off beyond what John Connor normally thought capable of her would be a bit of an understatement. Her usual reactions to snags in missions (or anything in particular) had a pretty wide range, which were as dynamic as her own personality. Sometimes she was just quiet and looked faintly sad. This was usually whenever she realized something existential, or something. Like something was already pre-determined before they got started. John hated to think about stuff like that. He hated it because, inevitably, it made him ponder his own...well,_ being_ to put it bluntly. When he was ten, he could remember something running on constant loop through his mind, sharpened logically through years of training and strategizing: How could he have sent Kyle back in time _to conceive him? _That shit made no sense. By that logic, John shouldn't have even existed unless Kyle had existed back in 1984 without time travel and... Yeah, that sort of thing. Sarah went through that a lot as well. A lot more than he ever did. Maybe because she was older, and understood more than he did. Anyway, she got all depressed whenever shit like that happened to her.

Mostly though, whenever she got angry during "work", she yelled a lot while trying to do damage control; getting useful shit done while venting out her own anger. She'd chastise you while firing off wildly with a nine millimeter, for example. She had to make her lessons clear through temporary asides, even when a killer Terminator was busy blowing stuff up not several yards away. Action was the best teacher _along_ with verbal lessons, she said, although John thought it was fucking hard to concentrate on what your mother was saying right after you'd nearly been shot.

This was a different sort of anger. It was quiet, like when she'd be depressed, but it also looked thoughtful, calculating. Her eyes constantly drifted back and forth in the rear-view mirror, barely paying attention to the road. You could almost literally see the gears turning in her head. It was a suspenseful, fitful sort of anger that was characterized by fear of the unknown, John supposed.

Derek Reese didn't look much better. And he was the hothead, which was a bit more annoying, though less stressing, than his mother. Derek would question you relentlessly, trying to get every last detail out there in the open. His mother simply looked brooding, trying to determine the best, most adequate question of all. She glared a lot.

"What was his name again?" Derek asked, not looking back. They were all in the military jeep Sarah had commandeered a few weeks ago, heading towards the Hilton hotel downtown. And possibly into a trap. John and Cameron Phillips had just been picked up not five minutes ago from the warehouse where they'd conducted their admitted failure of an interrogation. An interrogation that might have worked if John had simply went along with Cameron's suggestion to torture Anton Pasternak for the information. This was where the "possibly" in the "trap" part came up. They didn't know. And ignorance was _not_ bliss.

John and Cameron never mentioned a word about neglecting to use more forceful methods and, more to the point, that it HAD been mentioned in the first place, when John and Cameron had been...with Anton. All John had done so far was explain what had happened, with the occasional interjection from Cameron. He didn't know if Sarah or Derek would call him on not using more forceful methods. He hoped not. He really hoped not. John was trying really hard not to think about the fact that, apparently in the future, he himself would condone such things. _Cameron_ had called him on that, as a form of justification for torturing Anton. It hadn't worked.

"Anton Pasternak," Cameron answered.

"Doesn't ring any bells," Derek said musingly, "You really couldn't get anything out of him?"

"No," Cameron said. John pretended not to notice her giving him a look as she said that. She'd apologized for telling him in the first place, but only because she knew it had upset him. Other than that, torture was still A-OK in her book. Or so John thought, anyway.

Derek scoffed, "You're a Terminator! You couldn't intimidate him into telling you anything?"

"I didn't have time to before he released himself," she said. That was a lie. She'd let John do most of the talking. He still didn't fully realize why. He thought he was really terrible at it, actually. Interrogations, that was.

"Useless," Derek muttered, shaking his head. "You should have grilled the bastard. You would have killed him anyway."

"No," Cameron said, "John wanted to avoid unnecessary violence. He stressed that before we incapacitated him." That was another lie. John had fully planned to just leave the guy there once they were done with him, but otherwise he hadn't said a word regarding violence. Obviously he'd implied that he wouldn't _punch_ the guy, or anything, like...needlessly, but he hadn't said anything. Christ, she was really rising to his defense even when she had no stake in it.

Derek turned around in his seat and looked at John for a moment, his eyes slightly narrowed, eyebrows furrowed as he concentrated on his future commander. Of himself, John felt himself shrink back a tad, though not by much. For a horrible, fearful second, John thought he'd start saying the same things Cameron had told him in the warehouse.

He just shook his head a bit. Still looking back, he said, "Yeah, well, John needs to get his priorities straight, then."

"Shut up," John snapped. God, he hated him right then. It was really ironic, though, in a way.

"We could be walking into a trap," Derek said, ignoring John's "request', "And we have no idea, because you couldn't at least rough the guy up a bit." He scoffed again and looked back, shaking his head in dull wonderment. John felt his ears burning a bit, and he really didn't know why he felt embarrassment just because he hadn't acted ruthless. That wasn't him. He'd said it to his mother just a month or so ago (in his reckoning. He'd actually said it in 1999); he wasn't a grand military commander. He never would be, nor did he want to act like one. He wanted to stop Skynet before it was born because he knew he would never be able to become that person. And here he was, being chastised exactly because he was acting in opposition to what was expected of him. God, did Derek even know that John didn't want any of this? Had Sarah explained that to him at all? John really felt that ought to be explained. Really.

"We never had the chance," John said quietly.

Derek shrugged, "Yeah...that too. He got up, you said? Couldn't at least tie him up the right way? Great job, there."

That was fucking _it._

"Derek," Sarah said, in a low, cool voice, "Stop it." Everyone in the car looked at her as though they had temporarily forgotten that she existed. John had been in the process of getting up to fucking slug Derek when she spoke. He'd just about had it with the prick; always criticizing him, always keeping the bar so fucking high he couldn't even hope to reach it, all that crap. Derek had some fucking nerve...after what happened. Acting like this. All snide. Man, was he pissed. Sarah glared back toward John. With a distinct effort, John forced himself to calm down and sat back. He brought his hands up and clasped them behind his head. Christ...

"What's done is done," continued Sarah, "We at least have a better idea of what to expect from that place, so that's all that matters." Derek sighed and turned back toward the windshield, shaking his head. He seemed a bit...not sorry, but...Huh. Sarah turned back to John and Cameron and stared at them. They were at a red light, so it was pretty convenient timing for a mini lecture.

John said nothing. He was staring at the back of Derek's head, absently painting a metaphorical bullseye. Cameron was sending looks at everyone, probably analyzing their body language to get a good gauge on their moods. Sarah met her eyes, and they stared at each other for a moment with an odd sort of mutual sympathy that John never picked up on.

"Let's not get unraveled. This isn't even that big a deal," Sarah said. "I know we've all been going through a ton of stuff lately, but...it can't all come out at a time like this. Let's get this done. Alright?"

John's eyes flitted back toward Sarah in momentary confusion. What sort of stuff was _she_ dealing with? And Derek? He'd always thought they had it alright...or better at least...

Or maybe not. Man, he felt selfish all of a sudden.

Sarah cleared her throat impatiently.

"Alright," John said quietly. He was all but willing to put this shit behind. Or maybe they were just putting it off. Either way, he was glad.

"Right," Derek said.

"Affirmative," said Cameron, sounding altogether too pleasant. It was an odd contrast from the stoic and monotonous way the T-800 had said the same exact thing, which had John smiling unexpectedly.

Sarah nodded, pleased. She still seemed a bit angry, but also seemed determined not to let it get to her. She was cool that way. "Are we forgetting anything? Physically, I mean."

John just about smacked himself, "Oh, shit."

Everyone looked at him, eyes narrowing in mutual annoyance. John said, "Uh, we never went to school, so...I never got my flashdrive. I sort of need it to hack into the security." He offered a half-smile, his previous anger forgotten.

Derek rolled his eyes. Sarah raised an eyebrow, but nodded briskly and turned the car around. They were still relatively close to the school, so it was alright. Sarah gave Cameron a look through the rear-view mirror, "You need anything?"

"No."

"Great."

It took five minutes to reach the school. After convincing Cameron that he could handle going up to his locker himself, he started sprinting up the front lawn of the high school, toward the front entrance. He started biting his lip idly as he approached; although the metal detectors were only active during the beginning and end of the day (when you turned in and got back your stuff) the place always had a security guard. They weren't any better than rent-a-cops as far as professionalism went, but they always demanded name and ID from visitors. For parents it was a matter of simply checking documents and shit like that. For students it was always a matter of why said student was coming in _then_ as opposed to the beginning of the day.

John pushed open the door slightly and had a look inside. Surely enough, a rather beefy security guard was in the lobby, leaning against one of the metal detectors. The guard had his nose in a paperback novel titled, in large, red letters _"In The Crosshairs of Fate." _John had to smile. Several students were chatting near a set of double doors that led into the auditorium, but John didn't worry about them. They probably wouldn't say anything. Kids were just like that, himself included.

He walked over to the detector on the far-right of the lobby, doing his best to come down on the heels of his feet to make less noise. He stole a glance over at the guard every few seconds or so, hoping he wouldn't decide to give the lobby a quick look-around. _"In the Crosshairs of Fate"_ seemed to be more engrossing than John had originally thought, though, for not only did the guard not catch John skulking into the lobby, he seemed to disregard all Earthly happenings as he read. John barely managed to stop himself from laughing as he got through the lobby and reached the adjoining hallway.

After that it was simply a matter of hoping he wouldn't spot a classmate in the hall. Or a teacher. That'd be really bad. Even worse would be seeing Cheri Westin, because he knew he wouldn't have time to talk, or do much of anything with her. The high school was about as it always was: brightly lit, patrolled endlessly by students and staff. Motivational posters positively covered the walls in any place imaginable, which included lockers (John pulled those off without hesitation whenever he saw them) doors, and other such crap. He continued down the hall, passing students and the occasional teacher as he went. Recognized none of them, recognized by none of them. Great! He reached his locker in no time and quickly did the combination. Pulled it open and saw his white flashdrive laying among a few books. He quickly grabbed it and closed the locker.

Well, that was simple. He started back down the hallway, whistling tunelessly until the double-doors were in sight. Simple! Time to get back to the real stuff. He hated being side-tracked, and was glad that there hadn't been any fuss with this, not that he'd been-

"Excuse me."

John froze. He was pretty much alone in this part of the hallway, so that meant whoever it was was definitely speaking to him. He was just about outside the main office.

"Yes?" He didn't turn. You never could know. He also threw his voice a tad, making it seem deeper than it already was. John made like he was playing with a game...thingie. A DS, PSP, whatever.

"I'm Special Agent Kester. Sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you knew one Steven Valdez." The voice was polite and officious, if somewhat monotonous. It carried an air of business-like that was very over-riding of all other emotions, almost. It also apparently belonged to a member of the FBI. John carefully slumped his shoulders and and hunched down a bit, still pretending to be playing some hand-held entertainment thing. It could be a set-up. They'd want him to turn. His picture was in the FBI database, that would only make sense. The guy sounded caucasian. He knew Agent James Elison was black, so...Could still be a trap, though. He wouldn't turn.

"No," John said, using the same tone.

"Have you ever heard of Steven Valdez?"

He was 14, a freshman, and was pretty good at chess. He recently enrolled at Campo de Cahuenga after moving to Los Angeles from New York.

"No."

"Would you mind turning, please?"

John was silent for a moment. Oh god. Why did he want him to turn? Wasn't answering the questions enough? Unless they really _were_ after him, and...

_What if it was Cromartie?_

He stiffened even further as that thought penetrated him, like an ice-pick, or something. Leon Trotsky. He just about shivered as ice shot up his spine with that fucking thought. The golem was biting. It took a supreme effort of will to keep himself from breathing rapidly at that moment as his mind raced. He was now in a rather distressing sort of logic game: If Cromartie, then run. Probably die. If FBI dude who wants to pick him up, then run. Probably relocate within the next 24 hours to another city. If FBI dude who just feels exasperated at John's social ineptness, then feel stupid. Then run.

Kester didn't ask him again, nor did he sigh or anything in exasperation as John just stood there like a ninny. John simply heard slow, but very sure footsteps as the FBI agent maneuvered around him. John dropped his hands to his sides and tensed his shoulders up. He arched his left leg back a tad in preparation to run.

The tall, well-built frame of Kester appeared at the edge of his vision-

"Hey, John."

John whirled around to see Cheri Westin approaching him from behind. She was smiling, apparently not noticing the hulking --and faintly Terminator-esque-- figure behind him, or just not caring. The smile was somewhat tenuous, but John didn't care. He'd never been so happy to fucking see her.

"Hey, Cheri," John said, and he deliberately walked away from Agent Kester. He smiled back at her --he hoped he looked suave. Or close to suave. Anything within a hundred miles from suave and outside a thousand miles from "about-to-wet-pants"-- and nodded his head.

"John what?" the voice said. It had gone utterly dead-pan and authoritarian, losing all of its politeness. Emotionless. John fucking froze again. That ice was like a fucking sheet now, all over his back, completely immobilizing him. He lost control over his face and assumed he looked generally horrified.

_Oh CHRIST. He wants to fucking know my surname, CHRIST-_

Cheri's eyes widened slightly as she processed John's reaction to that and said, "Westin. He's John Westin."

John stared at her for a moment, a smile slowly coming to dominate his face. Cheri's eyes flitted toward John and she smiled a bit, looking embarrassed. His eyes went all big and sparkly, like a kid seeing that the cookie jar had been left unguarded. That was... Oh god, yes! He felt like fucking _taking_ her at that fucking point. Christ! Not only was that _brilliant_ thinking, it was..._good. _

He didn't think right then. Cameron was a robot. A fucking robot, made of metal, pistons and all whirry and beepy bits. Cheri was all fucking human, and, more to the point, all woman. John wasn't thinking. Later he would silently kick himself for acting so goddamned primally at this point.

There was a brief silence. John was silent, waiting to see if that would throw the guy (thing?) off. He thought it would. And he was right. Christ, but that had been so fucking well-aimed. In more ways than one.

"I see. Cheri, do you know of one Steven Valdez?"

"Yeah," Cheri said, turning her attention away from John and toward Kester, "He's a freshman."

"Do you know where he lives? He's ill today and the school refuses to divulge such information without a warrant."

Cheri stared at Kester for a moment, her eyes going somewhat narrow. Suspicious. John just stood there, but he'd stopped tensing up significantly. He let out a long, drawn out sigh of relief, and he felt almost like collapsing to the floor in exhaustion, as if he'd just went above his average exercise limit. More than that, though, he just stared at Cheri. Appreciating her, appraising her. That had been smart fucking thinking. He realized, almost as a hilariously irrelevant after-thought --not so irrelevant to him-- that he was hard. He didn't care. He just wanted. This was almost as over-powering as the fear he'd just felt a few seconds ago. The combination of those two emotions made a rather potent cocktail, enough so that he felt it physically. He sighed again, mostly to himself this time. His chest felt as if it was on fire. He had to sit down desperately.

"Sorry," Cheri said. She shrugged.

"No..." John said, almost inaudibly.

Silence from Kester for a moment.

"Thank you for your cooperation," he said. He didn't thank John.

"No problem..." Cheri looked back to John. She gave him a rather fishy look.

Footsteps trailing off, slowly. John risked a look over to Agent Kester and took in the guys physique as he stalked away. He was wearing a jet-black suit with matching pants and shoes. He was tall and looked reasonably well-built. Had brown hair, as far as John could see...

Cromartie had been bulkier, but that might just be a skin thing. Either which way, the guy was gone, whoever he was. The guy was either a Terminator or a sociopathic FBI agent, which in itself as a theory, wouldn't surprise him. He'd been suspicious of John, that was all that mattered. And he _knew_ that something terrible would have happened if anything had gone wrong there. He felt like he'd just dodged a fucking bullet. John was shaking all over the place, as if a really cold draft had kicked up. He exhaled, long and hard for a few seconds, and he stumbled back against a locker, breathing a bit more steadily. There was a rather silly, relieved grin on his face as Cheri walked over and sat down next to him, without his prompting. That just...God. He felt like giggling a bit.

He did. Cheri chuckled a bit, probably involuntarily and said, "You look happy."

"That's a fuckin' understatement," John replied. He felt delirious, to be altogether _more_ stated. He turned his head to her and smirked when their eyes met. He closed them tightly and settled his head back against the locker, just breathing. His day was officially FUBAR, but it was alright right now.

Cheri was conspicuously silent. After a few moments, John opened his eyes and looked at her. She was also leaning against the locker, looking...pensive. She was smiling, though. She turned over to him and they just stared at each other for a few seconds. She just...nodded. She wouldn't question what had just happened. John wondered why, idly. "I must look like I'm drunk or something," John said.

"I know what drunk looks like, and you're not it," Cheri returned easily. She nodded her head toward him and whispered, "Take it in. You won't get many moments like this."

"Like what?" John asked quietly. He felt strangely as if she had him to a wall, or something, arms around him. It just felt that way. Or maybe he was fantasizing too damned much.

"Relief. It feels good, doesn't it?" she sounded envious, as though she wanted to share some of what he was having. This was just a reaction. Soon he'd think all of this over and go through a whole host of emotions. Terror. After-shakes, lust...all with their own stages. He'd question his relationship with Cameron while she was in the car with him. He'd be confused, obviously.

That would come in its own time. He'd keep it to himself...and possibly talk it over with Cameron during their talk he had planned. For now, he just wanted to sit there. He duly remembered the fact that he was supposed to do this quickly. Get back soon, Sarah had said. Yeah, right.

He looked at Cheri, "Yeah." Of himself, he started leaning himself toward her head. She remained where she was, just looking at him. Not analyzing him, as Cameron would have. Just watching.

He wanted her. That was really strange for him to think about. It was simple, all there, right out in the open. And yet it was like looking at something from which light bent around, something you couldn't see clearly. He wanted her right now. Right now he was being dominated by delirium he felt at having narrowly avoided something catastrophic. It was messing with him. It wouldn't last.

"John Westin," he murmured. He settled his head against her shoulder. She stiffened up a bit, but that was probably a reaction to being...like that, he guessed. He inhaled deeply.

Cheri shrugged, "It was all I could think of."

He grinned up at her, "You're right. It sounds boring, anyway."

She poked him in the stomach and he flinched back, letting out a startled laugh. God, he _felt_ drunk. He must look like such a mess. She didn't seem to mind, though. He realized that, as much as he wanted to, he couldn't go about openly flirting with her, at least not here, not in this sort of situation. He had to get back. He idly pulled himself up and sighed. Then he looked up at his hair, which was just about nearing curtain-like length over his eyes, and blew upward, scattering the bangs away.

"That was scary..." he said, a bit unnecessarily.

"Who was that?" she asked. There was little curiosity in her voice. It was like a rhetorical question, actually.

"A scary guy," John said simply.

"You're absolutely right," Cheri said. Christ, she knew something was up here. And she was acting...really cool about it. It was weird.

John started pushing himself up, "Listen, I gotta go. We'll talk tomorrow."

"I'm glad I was able to see you, John," Cheri said. Her tone left the impression that this wasn't over, not by a long shot. But she was willing to wait, "See you later."

John nodded, feeling a bit more pensive than he had a bit earlier. He got up and started walking, saying "See you."

He went through the double-doors, this time not even attempting to sneak past the security guard. He was still _In the Crosshairs of Fate_, though, so John was able to make it out scot-free, even if he did stumble a bit. The relief was starting to drain out of him a bit, leaving him feeling distinctly cold. That warm, nice feeling he'd had around Cheri was also a bit of a memory now. What he still had, in plentiful abundance, was the iron, paralyzing terror he'd felt when confronted with Agent Kester. His legs wobbled a bit, but he steadied himself as he walked toward the jeep, feeling the sun beat down on him from above.

He'd come so close. It felt even worse than things had when a gun was pointed at him. At least then he had adrenaline, he had knowledge of his attacker. He could run, or rely on Cameron/Uncle Bob. This had been different. There had been an immense feeling of near-helplessness, as though he was on the cusp of just being alone at sea. No one had been around to help him except Cheri, and that had been, very much essentially, by accident. It also explained why he'd acted that way around her, all melty and shit. What he'd been feeling was gratitude.

He hadn't even looked at the man, Agent Kester. He'd never gotten his face. All he heard was his normal, polite, yet horrendously other-worldly voice. John knew that the simple act of turning to face that man --or thing-- could have killed him. _A simple act._ That was _it._ That sort of suspense could kill you.

John looked down at the flashdrive he'd gone to recover as he neared the jeep. Now for the big time. What made this day. Back to the mission, yeah. He'd get a gun to carry around. A hot pseudo-girl to expertly defend his every move. A mom and uncle who operated like a dysfunctional version of...well, Sarah Connor and Derek Reese.

Same old.


	11. Often Go Awry, Part One

**Flight is Right**

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The events depicted in this chapter are entirely non-factual and did not occur. Any misrepresentation of the Checkers hotel is a result of my own ignorance of the area, as well as artistic license. The descriptions given for the hotel may be entirely non-factual. I don't own the Hilton hotel chain.

Chapter Eleven: ...Often Go Awry. Part One.

"We move into the hotel. Greet the receptionist, deny rooms, services, anything like that. Derek will lead you and Cameron up to second floor to the security office. We're all going to be wearing those balaclavas we picked up at the safe house. _Don't_ put them on until you reach the actual office. Subdue the guards, shoot only if John is in danger, you hear me?"

"Yes."

"_Mortal_ danger."

John Connor rolled his eyes, "She understands, mom." He looked over to Cameron Phillips and tilted his head slightly, trying to discern her reaction to that. She simply looked at him momentarily before returning back to Sarah, obviously not caring that he'd come to her defense. Or maybe she did, but had her priorities straighter than he did. He looked back himself, not sure if he should be glad for that, or unhappy. After what happened with Cheri, he was sort of leaning toward glad. Not in a smug way, or anything like that. Just...

Bah.

Sarah Connor didn't respond. She merely turned back to the window and stared up at the Hilton. They'd been here for about a minute, and Sarah had already launched into a reiteration of the mission plan. Methodical as always. That trait had always produced different reactions from John. Mostly annoyance, like he was being patronized or something. He felt he was more intelligent than that, to get the same thing drilled into his head several thousand times in the space of a day. Case in point, Sarah detailing all the exits and security detailing of Campo de Cahuenga high school, just before John and Cameron had embarked on their first day there. That kind of stuff wasn't _necessary._ But he also appreciated it on occasion, if it was really important, or at least if he deemed it important...

In this instance? A mix. Annoyance at having it repeated for the umpteenth time and, deep down, appreciation that she cared this much to do so once again, even if it _was _technically called for. John supposed that, by that line of thinking, it _always_ was a mix.

Sarah gestured to Derek, who clicked open his door and started walking back to the rear compartment. John cast a glance at him as he went past, and their eyes met and held for several seconds before breaking off. John packed as much hot contempt in his expression as he could. The twenty minutes between their last spate hadn't sweetened their relationship, to put it lightly. John thought he hated him, even if Derek _was_ his uncle. He was a fucking faggot and a child fucker, and a smug, over-criticizing prick to boot, more importantly. John either didn't realize quite how much he was assuming here, or he didn't care.

Derek was totally impassive as he passed, save for the fact that he rolled his eyes lightly as they broke eye contact. John didn't give a shit about how impervious the guy was to dirty looks. He'd still give em' out. It made him feel --a bit-- better at least.

"Eyes front, John."

John looked at his mother, idly pushing a few bangs of hair out of his vision. Christ, he needed a goddamned haircut. If he wasn't careful his own hair would make him trip. That'd be funny in a way, though.

"I'm going to wait in the lobby until I see that the cameras have been disabled. Derek should be back with me by then. Together we'll try and get into the file room to see where Forsythe's staying."

John frowned and shook his head, "Uh, that shouldn't be a problem. I mean, I can probably manipulate the system to allow us to check from the security office."

"That's not a sure thing," Sarah said, but she was obviously speaking out of her near-instinctual doubt rather than out of any real knowledge.

"No," John said, pressing his advantage. "Most building networks are connected into every conceivable computer inside. It'd be easy to change around a security terminal's priorities as long as I have more than one computer to work with."

Sarah still looked doubtful. John rolled his eyes. While doing that, he duly noted that Derek was walking back, a duffel bag in his hands. John looked back to Sarah and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Sarah conceded, "Well, you'd know better than me, I suppose."

John merely shrugged, though he was smiling inside. "It's smarter to do this anyway, less security you'd have to deal with."

Derek climbed back into the jeep and unzipped the duffel bag without a word. Everyone in the car leaned forward to check what was inside. Lock picking equipment, four balaclavas, four pistols (two Glock-17's, a Beretta 92, and SIG-Sauer P239), and about a dozen clips of nine millimeter ammunition. Sarah grabbed the lock-picks and stuffed them in her pocket, along with one of the Glock's and three clips of 9mm, which she also appropriated about her person. Derek also grabbed a Glock and started to methodically check the firearm.

Cameron stuck her hand inside and selected the SIG, along with three clips, which left John with the Beretta. He grabbed both it and three clips of 9mm. Everyone was silent as they quickly loaded their guns and put ammunition in easily reachable places along their person. John clicked the safety on his Beretta and placed it within his hoodie jacket, where he'd placed a strap. He didn't intend on actually using it, needless to say, but it would be stupid to just stuff the thing in his pocket where it would dig into his side needlessly. He carefully stacked the clips in his right pocket and looked up at everyone else.

"When you're done with the security," Sarah resumed, "stay inside and keep the camera that watches the front entrance online. If you see cops, find the nearest window and get the hell out of there."

"Everything else goes off?" John asked.

"Everything, we don't want them to know what room we were checking. I'll keep everything in Forsythe's room the way I find it." She turned to Derek, "Plan for Forsythe's room still stands. You stay outside and cover for me. Stall anyone who comes along."

"Right," Derek nodded.

She turned to John, "If you see Forsythe coming in, call me. Send Cameron out to stall him if you that happens."

"Right," said John, "What if we see, uh, y'know..." He paused, thinking about how to word this.

"Metal?" Derek supplied.

"No," John said, almost scoffingly, "I was gonna say the, uh, mafia." That was awkward wording, admittedly. Both of his elders seemed to get it, though. How could they not?

They were silent for a moment. Maybe they'd forgotten about Anton while all wrapped up with the planning. That possibility got on John's nerves a bit, as if they'd deemed all that interrogation and shit (and the shit John went through during it, whether they knew about it or not) unimportant.

"They'd be armed, wouldn't they?" Derek murmured, mostly to Sarah.

"I guess..."

"Shoot to kill?" Man, he sounded _eager._ For some reason, John idly wondered how often Tech-Com had to deal with human enemies...How many people had Derek killed in his life? Real people. John didn't know about Andy, of course.

Sarah gave Derek a side-long look for a moment, a mixture of revulsion and, to a degree, understanding on her face. She said, "Shoot to disable, first. I'll do the same."

John's eyes widened, "You really think there'll be..." He stopped again and stared at them, his mouth hanging open a bit in apprehension. Wow, what was his problem today?

"No," Derek said "but you can never tell."

That didn't do much to set John at ease.

"I really doubt it, John," Sarah said, easily picking up on the sudden doubts he was feeling. Cameron stared around impassively, just waiting for orders. She didn't look eager to get out there, nor restless, nor apprehensive...just kind of there. John gave her a side-long look and frowned. The only times she looked lively, like she was capable of _feeling_ was when she was alone with him. That was a scary thought, and not one John particularly wanted to fixate himself on right now. He pushed it away; not as easily as it had come into his mind, but quickly enough.

"Ok," he said absently. He wanted to say something like "that's reassuring" or some smart alec comment, but he wasn't really feeling it.

Sarah looked over to Cameron, "And you..."

"Yes?" she replied.

"Stick with John every step of the way. Don't ever let him leave your sight."

"Of course," Cameron said. John fucking shuddered, and he was damned if he knew why. "_Of course." _She may as well have said something like "Duh."

"If we run into trouble, take him and run," Sarah continued, "Which leads us to the last order of business."

"Finally," Derek said with a snort. Sarah stuck her tongue out at him. They both chuckled, as if they weren't about to risk their lives. John didn't exactly feel like filling his pants in terror, obviously, but still...These things were always a bit freaky when you looked at them hard enough.

Swallowing another laugh, Sarah said, "Anyway, if everything goes as planned, we'll simply walk right back to jeep and drive away."

"And hear about all this during a minor news story later on," John said dryly.

"Minor is what we want," Sarah reminded her son. "But if it doesn't turn out to be so minor, here's what we'll do, in case the cops show up: We leave the hotel as quietly as possible. We don't go back to the jeep. Instead we'll meet up at that church we passed on the way over here. Remember?"

"I've committed the route to memory," Cameron said after a moment's pause.

"Great. Get there and wait for us. Or we'll be there waiting for _you._ Either way, once we meet up, we'll plan our next step. Hopefully it won't come to that."

Everyone nodded. Sarah glanced at each of them in turn before sighing and nodding herself. "Right, let's get started then." She pushed her door open and stepped out of the jeep. She was walking up the path towards the front entrance as the rest of the pre-resistance fighters quickly arranged the rest of their "gear" and exited the vehicle to follow her.

It was around midday, nearing one o'clock, and not too many cars were roaming the street. Which was not to say that you could cross the street without help from a red-light and expect to get out of there without injury, but John generally assumed the place should have looked a lot more bustling that it appeared to be. This was downtown, after all. It was where all the big corporations were located in Los Angeles. John cast a glance up toward the Hitlon as the Connor's, Derek, and their Terminator protector approached it.

The building was about thirteen (or twelve, John couldn't really count from here) stories tall, starting out wide and artfully designed at its base. At the third floor on it got narrower and more utilitarian looking. Another building was at the right side of the hotel itself, which was three stories, and John couldn't begin to guess what it was for, nor did he really care. The entire structure was of a neutral, white-washed color that didn't even try to grab your attention as you went driving on by. In short, it looked generally like any sort of expensive hotel you'd go to for a week with your mistress or something. A boiler-plate Hilton. A gate-banner above the front entrance proclaimed, in times new roman-esque font, that the hotel was called "Checkers."

Cameron was staring up at the hotel as well. Her eyes flitted rapidly over the features of it, probably formulating a rough idea of what the interior was like based on what she was seeing now. It made her more efficient, needless to say. You could make her as human-seeming as possible, but there were some things you just couldn't tear a computer away from. John turned away from her and looked on toward the entrance. Sarah and Derek were looking around idly, probably checking for things they'd missed on their stake-out.

They went through the front door, which was a mix of glass and fancy ceramic design. The lobby was about as John had expected: way over the top in terms of fanciness. The room was well-lit almost to the point of being blinding, and tables, plants and other nick-nacks littered the place for the sole purpose of instilling a certain aesthetic style as you took it in. The thing that jumped out most was the massive vase in the center of the room, situated on a table. It was filled to the very top with a colorful display of flowers. The floor tiles were a mix of off-white with peach lines crisscrossing, along with tiny black squares in an equally square-esque pattern. The lobby had a floral smell, obviously brought on by the liberal amount of plants in the room. It was tinier than John had expected, which only served to drive all the fanciness into his skull even more. There were two people in the room; the receptionist and a man wearing a blue shirt and brown slacks. He had blonde hair and a vaguely hawkish, angularly constructed face. An unlit cigarette hung limply from his mouth, and he would occasionally tear it out and fiddle with it idly, as though he were fascinated by it. The man cast a glance at them before returning to his business of cigarette inspection and leaning on the wall.

The receptionist, a perky, but obviously harried looking woman wearing a blue uniform, peered at them as they approached, their foot-falls echoing loudly through out the otherwise quiet room. She was a pretty looking brunette who was wearing wire-frame, oval glasses that looked more stylish than really a use for seeing things more clearly. A frown crested on her face, and her eyebrows furrowed substantially in barely concealed apprehension as she stared at the group. For good reason, John supposed; they didn't look much better than average street thugs, especially Derek, who had a green over-coat on. Cameron and Sarah were wearing tight-fitting black-grey clothes with jackets of similar color. John was using the same style he'd basically assigned himself after they jumped through time; a jacket hoodie with some rebellious shirt design, like a gas mask or something. He was aware that it probably wasn't the best thing to wear at social functions, and especially not too good when infiltrating a fancy hotel. Still, when you went around with Derek it was difficult to emancipate yourself from the word "punks" anyway.

When they were just about at the reception desk, the woman offered a shaky smile and said, "Welcome again. Can I help you?" She looked at John and Cameron and made a show of widening that smile even further, "Are these your kids?"

John grinned back at her easily and looked down in mock embarrassment. The receptionist giggled a bit. She looked like she was in her early twenties. John absently tore his eyes away from her after realizing that he'd focused a _bit_ too heavily on her chest area as he took in her frame. Their eyes met and John smiled suavely. Well, he hoped so, anyway.

Sarah leaned forward, "Sorry to ask this, but do you have a bathroom we could use? He has to go," she gestured toward John. It took nearly all of John's willpower to keep from glaring at Sarah venomously as she said that. He heard a sudden hiss from Derek as the resistance fighter stifled a chuckle. Why couldn't they use Cameron? She, at least, wouldn't care.

"Oh," the receptionist said, and she looked over at John again. This time as if she had just watched him dine on a weeks dead raccoon and subsequently called it a gourmet meal. Sighing inwardly, John bounced a bit from foot to foot, stating in no uncertain terms that he wouldn't last much longer. The woman smiled sympathetically and said, "There's one at the far end of the hall as you leave this room," she leaned over the counter and pointed out the exit.

"Thanks," John said tightly. He started toward the hall the woman had specified, but not before casting a somewhat forlorn glance back at her as he went. Derek and Cameron followed him as Sarah began to say something else to the receptionist. He stopped bouncing in mid-step and rolled his eyes at no one in particular.

As soon as they entered the hallway, Derek suddenly grabbed at a nearby table end-table and started shaking with quiet, but vigorous laughter. The vase of flowers on top of the table started swaying back and forth, threatening to crash down to the floor. John and Cameron stared at him, he with an expression of increasing hostility, almost to the point of blind rage, she with that blank, pseudo-eagnerness as she observed something new.

"I'm sorry, but that was fuckin' great," Derek breathed, "Gimme a sec."

_Perfect opportunity_ was all John thought. Without thinking, he balled his right hand into a fist and slowly raised it. A sort of pins-and-needles feeling overtook all of John's body as his expression slowly, mechanically, went dark and nearly murderous. He wanted desperately to hurt his uncle. He could do it real fucking easy. Just BOOM in his fucking face, watch him hit the side of that table, watch the vase spill down over his head and cut his fucking face up. He could stand over his uncle's limp form, exuberant. John was getting a fucking stupid hard-on just thinking about it, how powerful that would make him feel. How much he wanted to get back at the bastard whom he blamed for almost half of his troubles all week.

But he was better than that. He could control things like that. Yes, yes he could. As a leader, you are supposed to inspire your men. Not left rifts between you grow ever more until they are not crossable anymore. That was fucking hard for John to understand. All he saw was Derek laughing at him. At a fairly stupid, opportunistic joke. A joke. Right. John stared at his fist and suddenly opened it, freezing the raising motion.

Yeah, alright. Funny. John smirked tightly and elevated his eyebrows a bit. He even chuckled.

"Yeah, keep laughing, you child fucker," John said, almost as slapstick and deadpan as Derek had been while laughing. He let his voice get vindictive as he delivered the last bit. Derek abruptly stopped laughing and raised himself up from the table. John wasn't paying attention; he was sort of staring downward, almost embarrassed, but feeling pretty good at the same time. You don't need violence, you just throw their shit back in their-

_WHUF!_

There was just...the floor. That's all he processed for a split second.

Floor._ Floor._ Grey carpeting, with a little inscribed design, all curly and flowery. Some cloud-like shit. Tiny tufts of dust floated around, kicked up by John as he doubled over and collapsed onto the floor.

_Flooooor._

It was...he felt it. Felt the feeling. There was a feeling being felt by him. He'd been slugged, almost without warning. He felt it in his stomach. Grinding, tearing, forcing. Punching. He'd been punched in the stomach. He'd been punched and he was on the floor, staring at the grey, floral carpeting with widening, hurt eyes, gone that way due to _surprise_ at the _feeling_ and _shock _at the-

_PAIN. _Like a fucking tidal wave just crashing over you, you feel it all around you as it encircles you, _gets you wet_ gets in your pants gets all over you. Fills your swimming trunks with salt water you feel all of that it's all around you like everywhere. Sudden, shocking blitzkrieg of pain. It echoes throughout your body from the source, and then it's all around you. It consumes you it's all you feel. Pain supersedes all other feelings you feel at the time, rescinds them, puts them to the back burner. John's eyes shut tight like vaults, a reflex. The floor disappeared. The feeling of being punched was just replaced with the PAIN.

It was a blunt, forceful sort of pain, the sort associated with the wind being knocked from you. More feeling in the actual hit itself than the aftermath, it wasn't like a sting or an electric shock. You feel it all in that one punch and then your stomach reels back in shock and refusal to cope. The core of your body feels as though a hole was punched through you and then mended in the space of a second. It tears you and leaves its terrible mark, that pain.

John couldn't call up the energy to scream. Instead he let out a pained, horrid breath of air that resembled a long moan. He buried his face against the carpet and rocked there, momentarily delirious. He had to say something. Anything, before-

"Don't hurt him-" John barely managed to cough before he spluttered and he collapsed, feeling totally limp. Pain overwhelmed him. It would leave him spent in a few moments. For now it was just all over him. Tears squirted from his eyes for a few seconds as that pain continually washed over and around him. Swilled around him, like still water being shaken up.

"No," came Cameron's curt, malignant response. _Malignant._

"You see this, you stupid shit? She doesn't even fucking listen to you."

Silence for a second. John writhed on the floor for a moment, kicking his legs down against the carpet. He brought his hands down to his stomach and started pressing against it, trying to regain feeling. Just anything.

"Did you even hear him, metal bitch?" Derek hissed quietly.

"Yes. I did hear him..."

"OOF!"

"And I chose not to listen."

John felt a passage of air rush by as Derek recoiled under Cameron's attack. He doubled over. He didn't fall on his ass or anything, or do anything much in particular. He just reeled at the force of Cameron's "rebuttal." There were a few back steps. John carefully opened his eyes and stared up at Derek. He was hunched over, holding his stomach, backing away slightly from John's protector. His head was bowed. He looked down to John and oh...he looked so sorry. He looked angry too. There was a slight bit of pain in there. How could he contain all that beautiful, concise emotion and let it show when the pain was there? Everywhere! John wasn't even angry at him. He couldn't really process anger at this point, to be fair, but it was mostly _envy_.

John watched --barely-- as Derek slowly unfolded and, while still hunched a bit, stared at Cameron, who still had her fist held out. He was gasping a bit for air, but seemed to master himself. They stared baldly at each other for a moment before they both turned to John and walked over. Derek grabbed the boy's arms wrapped his hands around his pits. Cameron took his legs. Together they dragged him forward and leaned him against the wall.

"Ha..." John grunted. He stared up at the ceiling, watching the florescent lights above him sparkle and shine in his blurred vision.

"That was...I'm fucking sorry," Derek breathed. He was looking straight at John, misery and regret evident on his face.

John shut his eyes and settled back against the wall. The huge pain, that masterful, terrible behemoth over his body, was gone. Shambling off in search of another victim. The golem screamed in vain for it to come back. But while it was gone, the echo remained.

John gasped for a breath and he quickly opened his eyes again. They were almost totally messed up with blurring, making everyone and everything all murky and muddy in appearance. He blinked twice and wiped his hand across his eyes. When they were clear, he just stared at Derek with something close to shock. None of the hatred he'd known a moment ago. Just...absence of anything but shock, pain.

Derek looked away. He looked up at Cameron and shook his head. She cocked her head and bent forward, down to John. They stared at each other for a few seconds. She was just analyzing, but there was more there. Concern. Of course. Duh.

Sense started to return. The pain returned a bit, but John was re-mastering control over his sensibilities, his feelings, emotions, thoughts. All came forward and bashed against him. The whole ordeal had taken about half a minute. John started shaking, almost as if someone had snaked an electric wire under his shirt and pressed it against his navel or something. He was gonna explode into something. Kicking, screaming, trying to rage in violence against Derek. Or he'd start laughing hysterically. Or cry like a child, bemoaning himself, letting his pity and wanting and...

Or he could ignore it for now. Relegate it to later. React later, for a reaction would be needed if he was going to survive it properly. He'd give his nice reaction later, when he was with Cameron or something, when they were talking. Alright. Derek, he was ignoring it, even if it was his fucking fault. John had seen this. Just saw it. Yeah.

John slowly pushed himself up, using Cameron's shoulder for balance. He wobbled a bit on his feet and blinked rapidly a few times. Looked at Derek. The resistance fighter was staring at him...well, through him. It was a stare of the thousand-yard variety. Cameron laid a hand on John's shoulder as the teenager started to finally catch his breath. His shoulders stopped shaking. They slumped, listless. He absently folded his head against Cameron;s hand, causing her to withdraw it. As she did this, her fingers wiggled a bit on his skin. He nearly jumped as he felt that.

He just sort of looked at Derek. Yeah...he'd been punched...HIT FOR NO GODDAMN FUCKING REASON OTHER THAN FOR SPEAKING-

John turned away, bringing his hand up to his mouth, feeling suddenly, terribly overwhelmed. Terrible.

"I-I" he stammered. Then he stopped and whirled around once, as though he thought someone was behind him or something. He looked up and down. His left hand darted into his jacket for a second and touched the grip of Beretta 92. Released. Oh god, he was a fucking mess. He could almost imagine looking at himself, all embarrassed, saying to himself "this can't be me."

He couldn't react. He was trying not to react, because he didn't know what would happen. An explosion of emotion. This couldn't happen, not right now. Definitely not right now. That would be terrible, it would ruin the whole thing, this whole deal. They wouldn't get shit accomplished because of his neuroses.

"Take a deep breath, John," Cameron advised. John took in a shuddering, but deep, breath. He started to calm a bit. A bit.

And then Derek decided to impose himself again. He walked over and swung around Cameron, ignoring her sudden, piercing glare. She balled her fist, although neither John nor Derek saw that. Derek stood about a few inches from his nephew and looked down at him. John could feel his breath, hollow, ragged. The punch from Cameron had gotten his bullet wound acting up again.

"Stop."

"Don't say that again-"

"Derek-"

"Shut up. If this was 2027, you'd be dead if you made a comment like that to me. Take a second to let that sink in. I'm not even lying. I'd shoot you dead." None of them knew it, but Cameron's hand suddenly unclenched and darted toward her belt, slowly feeling the SIG-Sauer handle.

John let it sink in. He felt like fainting. He also felt like hitting Derek. He also felt like just getting on with what they were supposed to be doing. Fainting was the favored choice for his brain right now.

"This is _not_ the time and place for all of this," Cameron said. She'd gone utterly monotonous, business-like. At the same time...scolding. A certain magnitude of negativity was in her voice, just...there. "Stop this right now."

John closed his eyes for a moment. He breathed again. Calm... Opened his eyes. He stared at Derek and said, "You wouldn't." And that was true. Derek _wouldn't_ do that. Anyone who knew what was at stake wouldn't. Yes..._wouldn't_ That was power. He turned away, nodding absently, breathing raggedly.

It was the sort of power he really didn't like having. If no one killed him for slighting them, no matter how obtusely, then that meant that people would spare him when he made mistakes. Mistakes he would have to live with. God, what if he messed up? No one had told him that humanity's victory in the war was inevitable. That was a huge, _huge_ thing Sarah had never told him. That, eventually, John would make so many alliances and would turn so much of Skynet's technology back against it that victory was inevitable. John didn't know. He thought, quite sensibly, that there was at least a ten percent chance that Tech-Com would win.

He knew he'd make mistakes. Mistakes that people would hate him for, mistakes that would guilt him, mistakes that would drive him to consider all sorts of escapes, both in this present and in his future. And no one would kill him. He knew that. Those mistakes would eat freely at him, with no chance for release. So no, he didn't want that power.

The prospect of running away, right now? It was very attractive.

Derek flinched back a second. His eyes widened. He hadn't been expecting that at all. John didn't feel triumphant, or anything. He was just stating a simple fact. He didn't even wanna make a snide comment like "you'd sooner try and fuck me than shoot me," because he didn't even believe that anymore. That was wrong. Derek's reaction to it was proof of that. It had been uncompromising, the physical equivalent of "No, you're wrong, and here's why:" and then a full-blown explanation. He'd been punched instead.

He felt abused. By forces he knew, forces he understood, and forces he did not know, forces he did not understand. He didn't even feel like he was being tested, or that this was just a side-effect to standard teenage depression, or anything like that. It was planned. Deliberate.

There was another roar in his head as the world snapped back into focus.

Derek hadn't responded yet. He was sort of cocking his head. John brought his own hand up to his forehead, feeling it. All sweaty. "Go back to mom..." he said. He closed his eyes and turned around, giving the hallway a cursory glance. There was a green metal door near the end of the hall. He started toward it. Cameron followed closely. He felt her eyes on him. Digging into him. Learning. Alright. Alright...Calm _yourself._

He felt...He didn't want to say _mess_ or _wreck_. Those felt overused to him...He'd just...he felt so confused.

"I can't wait to talk to you," John said quietly. Derek was walking in the other direction and back toward where Sarah was, evidently agreeing that his continued presence around them would only damage things further. He was slowly shaking his head. This was his fault. All John had...was it _his_ fault? Had he...no, no, no, no, no. Don't think about it. Stay on task. His stomach lurched a bit with pain; an aftershock, essentially.

"We are talking," Cameron pointed out sensibly.

"I meant later," John replied.

"I remember. I can't wait either."

John opened the door he'd started toward. It creaked slightly, and a cold draft blew out from the stair well. John blinked and went inside.

"If he hurts you again, I can't answer for his safety, John," Cameron said idly as they started up the stairs.

"I really don't wanna talk about it, Cameron. I'm really upset. You understand? I just want to get back to what we're supposed to be doing."

"Agreed," Cameron said. She clamped up as they continued up. Blessed silence descended, save only the sounds of their own foot falls. John absently wondered how long he'd be able to last before he said something, imploring Cameron's cool, collected knowledge for an explanation of what had just happened. They went through a similar door to the one they'd found on the first floor, coming out into another hallway. John let out a vile curse as he remembered something.

"Derek knew where the goddamned office is!" he turned and started back through the door.

"We don't need him."

John rolled his eyes and looked back at the Terminator, "Cam, don't be a martyr for me. I..." he stopped and looked up at her, shaking his head a bit. He sighed, "We need him."

"That's not what I meant," she said easily, "I can detect heavy computer equipment and fiber optics."

"Oh..." Ok..._good_. "Well...alright then."

"You should take a moment to calm down, John." she advised as they started walking again, "You're still in shock."

"I noticed," John said dryly. They came up to a corner and he peered down it. Nobody around. He eased past it and resumed walking, "Uh...I'm just a bit, I dunno...I'd really rather talk about this later. Right?"

Cameron shrugged. She looked as if she wanted to talk though. He didn't even know how he knew that. She had the same deer-in-headlights sort of expression she usually wore, but he just got a vibe from her. He didn't _want_ to talk about what had just happened. He wanted to purge it from his memory. It had been a stupid little spate over a poorly delivered comeback.

But it _wasn't all that. _This thing carried emotional fucking _baggage._ Getting _hit_ like that...He felt like trash after something like that, even if he'd been the instigator. But why...why would Derek do that...

"Derek Reese is on file as having a pugnacious personality," Cameron said, causing John to jump a bit. Had he spoken out loud? "He tends to use physical violence when he feels he has been slighted. There are several recorded cases of this, one of which involved _you._"

"Guess he knew just where to hit, then," John said, feeling a bit...Wow. A chill ran down his spine. Things like that creeped him the hell out.

Cameron nodded, "Yes."

"What did I say?"

She stared at him for a moment, as if puzzling over how to word this. John suddenly did not wanna hear this. Not at all. They reached another corner, and John took a look around. A rather comically fat maid was busy sweeping around vases with a feather duster. She was wearing huge headphones, and John could actually _feel_ the physical vibrations of the music she was listening to, it was so loud. She probably wouldn't notice them.

"It was a little before you sent him back to this year," Cameron whispered, "I was there."

John stared at her. She was staring back, her head cocked slightly, curiously, "You were showing him the time displacement machine. You explained his assignment to him."

"Is that what caused it?" he whispered back. They scooted past the maid, her buttocks shaking back and forth at them as she grooved to whatever music she was listening to. At this range it was like artillery going off, a constant _ka-thoom ka-thoom._ Any other time and John would have been laughing hysterically at the sight, but right now he really didn't care.

"No. He was uninterested in that. He just wanted to know where you'd sent Kyle. You refused outright to tell him and he punched you in the gut."

"He really hates me, doesn't he?" John said, sighing. "Feeling's fuckin' mutual." John's other response to that probably would have been "can't say I blame him," but he wasn't in the mood, not right now, to be self-depracating. Just talking about this got him fucking pissed.

"During his time as a lieutenant he was one of your most vocal detractors."

"I'm not that person," John said quietly, "I don't know why..." he shook his head. "I don't know why he treats me this way...I'm not that person, you know?"

"Yes you are." John whipped his head around and stared at her with increasing venom. He was about to say something, probably in disbelief, or...just telling her how much things like that hurt, because, deep down...Instead there was a door at the end of the hallway, a door which Cameron suddenly pointed to. They looked at each other for a moment.

"We'll talk later, goddamnit," he muttered, and he started walking away from her at a quicker pace. She kept up, of course. He ripped the balaclava out from his jacket and quickly pushed the bangs of hair hanging down over his forehead to the sides. He looked at the black face-mask for a moment and slipped it over his head. He blinked quickly when the black fabric of the mask scratched slightly against his eyeballs. That was why he hated those things. He fished around tentatively for the mouth opening and placed it over his lips. This done, he looked over to Cameron. She was arranging her hair into a pony-tail so it would fit easier.

"Lemme know when you're ready," John said. He took out the Beretta and gave it a quick check. Fully loaded, magazine was OK, and nothing seemed to be wrong with any of the mechanisms. Great. He clicked off the safety. He'd want to be ready to shoot if necessary, although, to be perfectly honest with himself, he doubted he'd actually fire if he was threatened with a little of what he was packing himself. He'd probably run away if a gun was pointed at him and the guy (or gal) intended to shoot. The idea of killing somebody was...crazy. He'd go nuts if he killed someone. Well, nuttier than he was now. He'd just threaten with it. Maybe shoot into the air. Yeah.

John absently shuddered as he heard the snap-click of Cameron's SIG-Sauer. She would kill if anybody so much as sneezed in his general direction, no threatening or any bullshit, no morality. If anyone presented the most remote threat to John, they were dead. For a human, that took immense dedication, and probably love. Maybe a little insanity. His mom was like that. For a machine it was just a parameter. She probably had a threat-range, maybe numbered 1 to 10. She'd probably kill anyone over 3, for example.

She wasn't like the others, though. He knew that. That bore the question; _does she kill due to her programing or out of devotion?_

"I'm ready," she said. They walked a few more feet and reached the door, which was neatly labeled "Security Office -- Authorized Personnel Only" on a bronze plaque. John placed his hand on the door knob and gave it a slight tug. Locked. He knocked on the door, long and loud, and heard tired, lazy voices from behind. Footsteps approaching. He looked to Cameron and gave a slight nod. Show time. No time to deal with mopey shit.

Time to get into character. Good.

--

Derek Reese spent a long time in the hallway before heading back out to meet Sarah, who was still, by all indications, chatting amiably with the receptionist. About...something, anyway. Derek didn't give two shits, or one for that matter. He had other things on his mind. He felt...well, overwrought was one word for it, he supposed. He was biting his nails for the first time in over two weeks. The other time had been a little over an hour after discovering the safe house...Timms, Sumner, Sayles...It was a habit of his dating back to childhood, whenever he felt as though he had, or was about to, lose something he'd come to love.

When he was nineteen he had just about eaten his fucking finger nails a little after he'd realized that Kyle was gone. Captured. They bled for awhile after that, at least for a month or two.

This wasn't like that, but it was close. He felt he was screwing up, and doing so royally. John was a fucking kid, and he shouldn't have _punched_ a fucking kid, no matter how much John deserved it. And Derek wasn't even ready to fully believe that he _had_ deserved it. So why had he reacted that way? Christ, he was screwing up. John probably hated him. Not just the petulant, teenage-angst sort of "hate" either. The kid probably wouldn't mind if he _left._ His fucking family...and John knew it, too. He _knew_ they were related...

Fucking terrible, all of that. The kid looked...not scared, but just...the way a kicked puppy reacts to regular abuse. A sort of resigned whimpering. There had been shock there, yes, but John had ultimately reacted as though it wasn't that surprising in the grand scheme of things. What was taking so much of a toll on John right now? He was usually so...well, driven, of course, but he was a bit more clear-headed than this, or at least Derek thought he was like that. A little after that talk they'd had, where John had handed him some clean shirts, he just started acting all mopey and depressed. Derek was aware that something had happened between him and Sarah, but he thought that had smoothed over...And now it appeared that _Derek_ was the problem.

And if he didn't do some serious damage control, he would lose his chance to commune with the only family he had left. Sarah was just an in-law. John was his blood. Kyle had been 12 when he got captured by the machines. He didn't look much like John, maybe only a little. He'd been fucking _18_ upon his escape in 2021 from Century Work Camp, along with General Connor...and he had been a goddamned dead ringer for the John he saw right now. Not the hair, of course. They kept you bald in the work camps, and you wouldn't be caught dead in the resistance army with the mopey looking haircut John had going right now anyway. Other than that, they were almost exactly alike.

How could he let something like that go just because they didn't get along well? He was the kid's uncle...he was obligated to lay his life down for him, especially in their current situation, and by god, Derek couldn't even at least keep up a decent rapport with John, let alone tell him that he knew they were related. No, he was _punching_ him over stupid _jokes._ It was about then that Derek realized that it was more than the fact that John had acted like that. It was about what he'd said. Derek didn't want him to think that. That he was a child fucker, which was ridiculous. It was so stupid, but it was the reality John had in his confused, neurotic head. That was so _bad._ He couldn't even think up a ponderously fancy word for just how bad it was, because it was just _bad._

He had to think of something. Eventually. Something or he'd lose the only family he had left, the only _blood_ he had left. He sighed and pushed this crap out of his head. There was no time for it right now.

He eventually walked out of the hallway and back into the lobby, and saw Sarah leaning on a marble pillar, absently bumping her head up against it at a constant pace. The brunette receptionist was absently writing something in her tiny notebook. Derek looked her over, giving a mild appraisal. After a moment, he smirked. They sure knew how to hire the right gals for this business. The receptionist looked at him and let out a loud, obvious sniff of indignation. It was the trench coat. Girls were turned off by that, apparently. Derek continued smirking and stared at her.

The receptionist couldn't hold out. Eventually she turned her eyes down and back to her book, looking decidedly beside herself with worry. Derek just about chortled at her reaction and continued on over to Sarah.

The toughest warrior everyone in the future was aware of looked up at him and frowned. She stopped tapping her head against the pillar and tilted it, "That was quick," she said in a low, sardonic voice. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Derek sighed. Playing dumb here would be...well, it would be _dumb_, now wouldn't it? He wondered...how much of that whole exchange had she heard? "We got into an argument."

Sarah stared at him for a moment. Derek was aware that she would probably shoot him if he said that he'd punched John.

And suddenly he felt really, really afraid.

"And?"

Derek shrugged, feeling, oddly, that he was involved in a duel of some kind. It was always like this with Sarah when she got in a mood. One mistake and you were on the floor, "Look, I laughed after that little funny you made and John took offense. It was nothing major, he just wanted me to get out of his sight."

Sarah leveled her head and glared, "Derek, I'm not gonna have this...rift between you two explode into something that can threaten us. Threaten _him._"

"You think I want that?"

"You'd be stupid to, but this is what we have to deal with. Smooth things over with him, goddamnit."

Derek stared at her for a second and then clicked his heels together. He narrowed his right hand and brought to within an inch of his forehead, and thus gave Sarah Connor a smart salute. She blinked as he said, "Yes, ma'am."

"Fuck you," she said, almost absently. After a few seconds she smirked a bit, and her cheeks went a little red. Derek stayed exactly as he was until she bobbed her head a bit and gestured for him to stop. He did so, keeping his face utterly impassive.

She looked back at him and said, "I'm not your commander."

"Very good, ma'am."

"Derek..."

"First Lieutenant Tech-Com DN-38415 of the 132nd S.O.C. Derek _Thomas Reese_ under Perry."

"_Stop."_

Derek's shoulders sagged and he smirked at her. Sarah raised an eyebrow and shook her head.

"Fuck you," she said once again, "Just..." they both descended into chuckles. They sobered after a few seconds, and Sarah was all business again. She hated getting side-tracked, "I'll talk to him later. See what's bothering him."

Derek nodded. Sarah pointed a finger at him, "You still have to do your part. Talk to him."

Easier said than done, after all that had happened. Derek couldn't do anything but agree. He cast a look around the lobby. The two cameras, which were large, black, and in plain sight, had gone dark. The little red lights underneath them had winked out. Derek looked at Sarah. She nodded to him. Her cellphone rang.

Show time.

--

A security guard opened the door. The guy was pretty tall, but he was also a little chubby at the same time. He had a thick mustache and brown, joyous eyes. Hair was receding away from his forehead. He was grinning and appeared to be having difficulty holding in a laugh as he set his eyes upon the be-masked and be-pistoled figures of John and Cameron. Like a dead body releasing gasses as it died, the man deflated like a balloon and the laugh came out, sounding high-pitched and slightly loony as he peered at the scene before him.

"Wha...what...who-" the guard stammered, his voice high-pitched. His skin was rapidly turning a pallor white and he started backing away.

"Mike?" said someone in the room.

Mike didn't answer, being otherwise engaged. John aimed down the iron sight of his Beretta at Mike's chest and screamed, "GET INTO THE FUCKING ROOM!"

Exclamations from the people inside. They sounded decidedly freaked out. Mike's pupils had gone completely wide, as though they were threatening to bug out of his skull in fear of being within his body in the event of his death. He was shaking from head to toe. He seemed paralyzed.

John impatiently gesticulated with the pistol, "I SAID FUCKING MOVE! GET INSIDE OR I'LL FUCKING BLOW YOUR _BRAINS_ OUT!"

Cameron had her gun pointed at Mike's head. Unlike John, she wouldn't merely threaten in a loud, over-dramatic voice. She'd shoot. Anyway, Mike backed up into the security office and John followed closely, his gun pointed to the poor guy's chest. The security office was a medium-sized room of utilitarian construction, which was a marked difference from the rest of the hotel's design philosophy. A bank of monitors and computer equipment dominated the right half of the room, each one displaying a hallway of the hotel. Several swivel chairs and personal computers were lined up along the bottom half of this plethora of surveillance apparatus. The rest of the room was characterized by cheap looking furniture; a table which had cards on it, along with five chairs. Four lockets at the far left, along with a big cabinet, which looked large enough to house a few weapons. There was a gun metal door at the far end of the office, which seemed to be a way toward the outside. Finally, there was another door, also towards the far end, but on the left wall.

There were four other guards in the room, John noted as he slowly advanced inside, keeping the Beretta outstretched. He was starting to sweat a bit; it was the excitement. His teeth were clenching, and he was willing to bet his eyes had a rather harried, wild look to them. Two of the guards, wearing uniforms of similar make to Mike's, were sitting on the swivel chairs, turned away from the monitors. Like Mike, they looked scared out of their minds, although more with shock and surprise than actual terror. Another guard was standing at the card table, with his hands held up high above his head. He looked fairly calm, but also frightened.

And another guard was slowly walking toward the big cabinet. John yelled, "EVERYONE GET DOWN ON THE FUCKING FLOOR, I SAID GET DOWN!"

Mike eagerly jumped to the floor as if he were generally a sad and dreary human being anywhere else _but_ there. John swung the pistol around to cover the rest of the dudes in the room, and he screamed out his previous warning, tossing in a few obligatory "fucks" in there. While he felt really, really tense right now, he was also sort of enjoying the chance to vent out all of the anger and angst that had been building up inside of him all day, all _week_. Yelling was cool that way. It was sort of like crying, or exercising until you dropped. You just released energy. John quickly pointed his gun back down at Mike, made sure he was good and laying down, and then brought it back up again.

The two dudes over by the computer banks were looking at each other. Dude at the table was quickly laying himself down. Dude near the cabinet, still moving toward the cabinet.

John stayed exactly where he was and looked over at Cameron, who was cooly advancing toward the center of the room. Her SIG-Sauer was swinging to each guard at intervals of two seconds each. Every time she looked at one it was like she was laser-guided, she didn't even waver, her arms never shook. John was jittering like he'd drunk a ton of coffee or something just before all this, but he felt otherwise alright. He could make a shot if he had to. And that wouldn't happen. Nope.

John turned to the dude walking toward the cabinet and aimed at him. Cameron was covering the other two.

"Hey!" John yelled.

The guy didn't respond. He cast an apprehensive glance toward John and froze. "Did I fucking tell you to move?" John hissed.

Cabinet dude was silent. He turned from John and looked at the cabinet. His hand was drifting down to his belt, where John noted a radio. "I asked you a fucking question!"

"Uh, n-no" the guard stuttered. "You didn't."

"THEN LAY THE FUCK DOWN, DICK!" John screamed. He would absently realize, a little after the whole thing was over, that that hadn't been a dramaticism on his part. He actually thought the guy was a dick. John hated him right them.

The guard didn't do anything. He was just looking at the cabinet. He gulped and took a small, tentative step toward it. John blinked as sweat trickled down his forehead. Oh christ, the guy was gonna try something. He had it written all over him. Cameron was gonna fucking shoot him. He really fucking hated the guy right now. The guy had these odd, grey sort of eyes that seemed to stare right through you. He looked like he was just past his prime.

"LAY THE FUCK DOWN!" John yelled once again. He had his Beretta firmly sighted on the mans head.

The guy stared at him and held up his hands. He was really _looking_ at John right now, tilting his head, "How old're you?" The guy was trying to fucking negotiate. Oh god, why wouldn't he give up? What did he have to gain here?

"Shut the hell up," John said almost as soon as the guy stopped talking, "Get down on the floor." He pointed his pistol down for emphasis. That was a mistake, though. The guard immediately took a bounding step toward the cabinet and raised his arms to throw it open. John stretched the pistol as far away from his head as possible and fired. Pistols don't sound like cute little "bang bang" sort of noises, like on television. When you fire a weapon it's like a bomb going off. There's a noise like thunder, a rocket shooting off. The pistol bucked in John's hands, nearly threatening to launch itself completely from his grasp. Sarah's training was whispering in his ears, however. He tensed his shoulders to absorb the recoil and brought the gun down as quickly as he could.

The bullet clanged off the cabinet surface and ricocheted into the ceiling, where it explosively detonated on impact. Dust and plaster rained down. The wizened guard backed away from the cabinet and his hands sprung up into the air, going so fast that it seemed as though ropes had been attached to his arms. He was glaring at John now. It was a helpless, hopeless glare that characterized helpless, hopeless hatred.

"You're a freakin' kid," the guy said in a low voice. He was shaking his head slowly, looking determined to make his point. He looked real pitying, actually. A bit mortified, even. Yeah. John cast a quick look at Cameron as he spoke. The other two dudes at the computer bank were slowly laying themselves down. Mike was still on the floor, staring intently downward. Dude at table was peering up at the scene, but otherwise looked quite harmless.

John glared at the guy. God, he was sweating so bad. His arm felt like jello. There was gonna be another shot. He could feel it. Why didn't the guy just give _up?_ "Dude," John said, his voice losing all of its terrible, dangerous authority, "Just give up."

A look of jubilation came over the guy's face, and John could just about sense his line of thought "ah! Now we're gettin' somewhere!" God, John hated him. This guy was an old, determined mule. He wanted to make a fucking _point._ He lowered his outstretched hands.

"You wouldn't fuckin' shoot me, kid," the guard said. And he took a step toward the cabinet, quick and determined, not the listless shuffling he'd been doing a minute ago. He was glaring intently at John, not taking his eyes off. John pointed the gun just forward of him and fired again, wincing as the Beretta spoke it's loud, raging tirade to this guard's stubbornness. The guard winced as well, but he kept going. He really didn't think John would shoot him.

He was right. John sent a pleading look toward Cameron, suddenly feeling helpless. Oh christ, he was useless. Why'd he even take a gun in the _first_ place? Cameron returned the glance and gave him a meaningful look. If John didn't wrap this up, the other guards would get it in their heads that John wasn't going to do anything.

"What the hell are you here for anyway?" the old guard asked. He was still frozen, but he looked decidedly smug.

John turned back to him. "Get on the fucking floor."

"No."

Cameron whirled around and dropped her right arm a few feet, SIG outstretched. She fired almost instantly. There was a sudden splash of blood on the wall behind the old guard and he a jet of the stuff burst from his kneecap. He let out a stunted grunt, and it was as if a sledge-hammer had just been driven into the guys legs at about a thousand miles per hour. He fell head first to the floor and collapsed, arms outstretched. He writhed for a moment in dull pain before he started moaning and cursing. "Fucking!!-"

John looked at Cameron, shocked, although you wouldn't be able to tell due to the balaclava. She stared back at him evenly and waved her pistol at the remaining guards. They were all deathly silent. The only noise came from the groaning guard, all of his luster lost. John resisted the urge to kick him. Cameron tilted her head, indicating in no uncertain terms that she wouldn't hear anything about this until after the were done with the guards. Christ, she looked...the whole thing, all of her mannerisms...she was teaching him a fucking lesson. _Don't fuck around. This is life and death._

He shrugged absently, understanding. He didn't like it, not by a long shot, but he understood.

Lesson learnt.

--

**running program file/.../.../...Finished. Program file detected may be malignant? Do you wish to continue? **

John selected "yes." He absently tugged at his balaclava. A plethora of screens about a foot near the top of his head showed nothing but static. John stared at the little computer screen in front of him. A loading window dominated it, showing a green progress bar as John's little flashdrive worked its magic. John pressed his hand down on the enter key as a bunch of prompts, saying things like "Are you sure you wish to continue?" and such shit appeared, only to be cast away as soon as they came. The computer was kinda clunky; probably an early post-millenial model. His laptop could easily run circles around it in reliability and fastness. John smirked a bit to himself. Being introduced to genuinely fast computers after living half his life in the nineties had been a bit of a kicker for him, yep. A pleasant kicker. The green progress bar continued to march slowly across the screen.

Behind him, Cameron was busy dragging the unconscious guards into a nearby closet. After the deal with the older guard, the rest had just given up without a fight. John and Cameron had methodically knocked them unconscious using the butts of their pistols.

"What are you doing?" Cameron asked as she tossed one of the guards inside.

John looked back at her and paused. He really didn't like seeing her face all black and covered up, devoid of emotion, as a mask inevitably would do. For some reason he felt it was appropriate for a robot to wear a mask. They didn't have emotions anyway. And that was why he didn't like to see Cameron wearing one. He liked the illusion (reality?) that she had feelings, could react...accurately to human-type stimuli... "You can take off the face-mask, the cameras are dead," he said. He took off his own balaclava and ran a hand across his hair, straightening it all out. That only served to drop most of his bangs across his eyes, forming a veritable curtain. He blinked for a moment, suddenly thinking for a split second that the mask had come back on. He drove the bangs away, cursing them for the fifth time that day.

He looked at Cameron and cocked his head expectantly. She wasn't looking back; instead she was busily dragging yet another prostrate body into the closet.

"Cam?"

"I'd rather keep it on," Cameron said simply.

John stared for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing. He frowned, "But...we're all done here. Why?"

She looked back at him and replied, "I don't know. I feel more secure wearing it."

John smiled wryly, "You're a robot," he said. That was an explanation all in itself for why she shouldn't worry about being "secure."

"Cybernetic organism," Cameron corrected, which coaxed a surprised chuckle out of John. She looked at him and grinned suddenly, trying to share in the "joke", even if she didn't understand it. John didn't see the grin, obviously. She said, "Did I 'make a funny?'" The scene would look downright _funny_ to the average individual, especially when you considered the fact that these two had just stormed a security guard office and took it over.

John shook his head, smiling fondly, "Nah...you just reminded me of someone, that's all." He looked at her and waved his hand absently, indicating that they should stick to the task at hand. He was a little ticked that she hadn't listened to him, though. God...why did he care? Well...for obvious reasons, of course. Why didn't he just order her to? That would be unsubtle. And why care about subtlety around a Terminator? Well, again, for obvious reasons.

He felt like cursing for no reason, and he rubbed his forehead.

**Upload Successful! **

A list of options appeared, most of which would have appeared illegible to anyone but a guy like John. He knew the sort of headers and codes that characterized these things, however, so it was relatively simple to determine which of the codes written would chance this computer's network settings. He selected it and watched as the screen froze up and the computer started, slowly, to convert itself into a general purpose manifest on things such as organization, staff schedules, hotel guests, that sort of thing.

"And, uh, to answer your question," John said to Cameron while peering at the screen, "I'm getting Forsythe's room number."

Cameron walked over, having finished up with the security guards, "Knocking those men out was unnecessary," she said as she took a seat next to him, on a swivel chair. John gave her a meaningful look.

"Unnecessary?" he echoed. Could she be developing a conscience?

Cameron nodded, "Yes, it would have been more efficient to just kill them."

John grunted in a "go figure" sort of way and turned back to the computer, rolling his eyes, "You can't just go around killing people." He sighed to himself, realizing that he'd said the _exact_ same thing to the T-800 protector a few years ago. The only thing that had changed was his voice, which had gotten deeper.

Instead of saying "I'm a Terminator. It's what I do," Cameron said, "I try to observe this 'rule' as much as possible, but sometimes you just have to kill somebody."

"No you don't," John said firmly. How many times would they have this discussion? It was like arguing atheism versus faith, you couldn't convince someone who is firmly involved in their beliefs to give that belief up. Same thing with Terminators, at least if they weren't programmed to follow your commands. That was Cameron's "problem." You had to convince her not to kill, you couldn't just order her. Yes, that was her "problem."

Why was he putting mental quotations around that? Because he didn't want to order her around, not really. When he was ten he thought ordering a Terminator around was cool, because the T-800 was huge, hulking, barely human in his mannerisms. It was like a toy (at first. John had pretty much come to the conclusion that he'd seen the Terminator as a pseudo father figure.) Cameron was a machine, yeah. And she was also a fucking hot girl. And then there was the human bit. She was good at the human bit. Good enough to fool him at times. And sometimes she-

God_fucking_damnit.

The monitor blinked and the fuzzy image was replaced by a black and green, utilitarian manifest with several categories of information. John gave the page a quick look-over and selected "guests." As he did this he said, "That's why I had trouble with that guy, y'know?"

"That situation made me question just how effective your mothers training was for you."

John glared at her, "Shut up. I don't need critique from a Terminator. Don't you appreciate...y'know, life?"

Cameron nodded, "Of course. I appreciate _your_ life."

John smiled a bit, even though he didn't really want to. He just liked it when she said things like that, "Well, yeah. You're programed to appreciate my life."

Cameron was silent. She even turned away, as if John had proposed something indecent. He sighed, "Look, I understand why you shot that guy. I have no problem with it, mom would have done the same thing. But the whole killing bit doesn't...it doesn't sit well with me, ok? And I'm really glad you didn't kill him."

She smiled. He couldn't see it. But he knew it was there, he just felt it. He took in a slight, shuddering breath and stared.

"Thank you," Cameron said. She sounded genuinely grateful for the compliment, but John thought that was dubious at best; she could probably feign that sort of thing.

He thought that for a while until Cameron took off her face-mask, revealing a mess of hair and her beautiful face. John stared at her in mute shock, his mouth falling open just a tiny bit. She smiled again, right at him, so _he_ could see it. John stared at her for a moment, heart fluttering. She did these sorts of things to him for reasons he had trouble understanding. Sometimes it hurt him. Sometimes it gave him a simple, happy sort of pleasure. This was one of those times.

He smiled back at Cameron, all too willing to return the favor.

Author's Note: Heavy action coming up in the conclusion of this chapter. Hope you enjoyed this.


	12. Often Go Awry, Part Two

**Flight is Right**

Disclaimer: The events depicted in this chapter did not happen. If, for whatever reason, they _are_ related to true events, it is entirely coincidental. I do not own The Smiths, or any of their works. This is the language of "don't sue me."

Chapter Twelve: ...Often Go Awry, Part Two

**query return; guest list? nine refs found. directing...**

**hotel room manifest**

**floor one: ...**

**floor two: ...**

**floor three: ...**

It went on like that, listing floor names and then the guest staying on said floor a bit underneath that. All in small, very small green font on a solid black background. The management certainly wasted no time with aesthetics when it came to information. John Connor eventually had to start squinting and rubbing his eyes in irritation as he cleared the seventh floor of a "Forsythe, D." The black face-mask he'd worn into the security office was crumpled up next his his rapidly typing hands, along with the Beretta 92 pistol. He had to keep typing the same code over and over again into the query box to keep the firewalls from detecting an intruder. A simple safeguard, but it was extremely tedious just the same. Coupled with the fact that he had to keep his eyes diligently searching the screen for "Forsythe, D" on the guest list, and that made him a decidedly _un_happy camper. He cursed softly and shook his left hand for a moment; it had developed a slight cramp. The joints in his fingers let out high cracks as he shook it. He pressed them against the surface of the security desk and stretched it a bit. More, slightly lower cracks. That was a really annoying sound. A lot of things annoyed him at the moment, though.

For instance, he was kinda ticked that Cameron Phillips hadn't said a word to him since their latest...

What would you call things like that? Having a moment of closeness with a machine. Touching, smiling, feeling giddy, yet confused at the same time. And then you watched said machine do exactly the same thing, feel the same things you felt. What would you call instances like that? Not flirting; he wouldn't exactly call "hey, I'm glad you didn't kill those poor bastards" and then feeling really good about himself as she just _smiled_ at him "flirting..." But it was close enough. It felt nice afterward until he just examined it, and what it essentially meant. And the fact that, like an ostrich, he was pretty much hiding his head in the sand when faced with such thoughts as "do I like her? Like, in a romantic way?" It was only natural that he would hide his head, for obvious reasons. And that was why he still held out for Cheri Westin, his essential foil to Cameron. Again, for obvious, obvious reasons.

Right now he still felt alright about it. Right now he was stressed with the whole hacking bit, so it was easy for him to dispel shit like that. Right now he was still in "flirtation" mode, and he was annoyed that she hadn't spoken. His eyes scanned the eighth floor despondently and he eventually moved on, grunting. Typed the anti-firewall code again and slammed the "enter" key. He shut his eyes, and typed blindly for a moment.

"Cam?" he said quietly. He really wanted to talk. About anything, really. To take his mind off what he was doing? Sure.

Instead of a response, John heard nothing. He opened his eyes, turned from what he was doing, and took a look around, his right hand moving towards the Beretta. But the security room appeared empty. John flinched back, almost as if he'd just seen the room suddenly filled with ravenous crocodiles instead of it being bare of anything, most notably his _sworn_ protector. What the hell?

John blinked and said, in a much louder voice, "Cameron?"

There was a moments silence. "Hey!" John yelled.

"Hey," came a softer reply, from the part of the office he and Cameron hadn't investigated. John slumped back in the swivel chair, his arms dangling at his sides. He sighed with some measure of relief, even though he _knew_ she wouldn't have just left him like that. Never. Why had that fear even materialized within him? Damnit. From his slouching position, he said, "What're you doing?"

"Getting food," Cameron said as she appeared at the corner. She was carrying a brown paper bag in one hand and a can of soda in the other. John thought it was pepsi, but that wasn't exactly what interested him right then, to say the least.

He blinked as she advanced forward and set the paper bag on the computer bank, and then the can. It read "Diet Coke." She stood there and looked at John expectantly, her countenance one of understated anticipation. She looked almost smug, for whatever reason. John stared up at her, mouth slightly agape.

"Um," he inquired.

"You haven't eaten for five hours and nineteen minutes," Cameron explained.

John looked down at the brown bag. The name "Earl" was written in bold, black sharpie on the side. The top was folded neatly against the paper. The can of soda was sweating little droplets of water. He felt as though he should say "thanks, but I'm not hungry" or ask what was inside, but he felt fairly choked up.

She brought him _food_. Was it part of her mission to see to it that he was well-fed? Wouldn't that sort of thing only come into play if he was _starving_ or something?

John looked up at her again and cleared his throat, a bit too loudly and awkwardly. He wanted to move, to do something. Then he'd feel embarrassed, probably. Somehow. Cameron was still staring at him with her deer-like eyes. Damn her, she was probably scanning all this, extrapolating on his silence, what it meant. Cool, collected. Scan this data, put said data here, check later. Machine intelligence. Calculated moves. Was _this_ a calculated move? Or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing? And if so...

Christ, why did everything have to be a fucking analysis? She brought him food, good. Ok. If it was any human girl he would have absently said "hey, thanks" but no. The whole machine bit came into play whenever shit like this happened. It frightened him, to be perfectly honest. A question was on his lips. Yes indeed. He opened his mouth a bit more to let that question forth. To hear, and process, what she'd say. He would ask "why did you do that?" and her response would be prompt. _Because you're hungry._ And then he would-

Fuck it, "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

He grabbed the bag, almost angrily, and looked inside. Turkey sandwiches. John resisted the urge to run out of the room. Holy fuck, wasn't that convenient? His favorite type of sandwich. He cast a glance up toward Cameron and simply nodded, smiling tightly. She'd brought him food. Why was that such a big deal? It wasn't! No sir.

Stop getting worked up over shit like this, John told himself. Roll with it. _Be cool. Don't think._

Cameron pulled up the swivel chair she'd sat in a few minutes before and plopped herself down again, "Have you found him?"

John turned to the computer, frowning. The screen was as he'd left it. Biting his lip, he swiveled around and quickly typed in the anti-firewall code, probably with only a few seconds left to spare. What he didn't know was that time _had_ already run out, and someone had made note of his activities. Derek Reese was currently snapping off a salute at Sarah Connor, much to her chagrin.

"Not yet," John replied, "I'm starting to think he's not on it."

Cameron stared at the screen. "The chess representative might have lied to Sarah."

John frowned, taking a moment to remember the fact that Andy Goode's associate had told his mother where Daniel Forsythe was staying. He merely shrugged. He didn't want to consider any more complications than he already had to. He scanned the ninth floor manifest, and his hand absently snaked into the paper bag. He pulled out the turkey sandwich and took a small, tentative bite. After chewing for a moment, he eagerly took another, bigger bite. The thing was delicious. He made an appreciative noise and Cameron beamed at him, a reaction that sent a slight tingle up his spine. Her eyes widened considerably and she just...nodded at him. That was...nice. The misgivings...the weight behind what she'd done was still there, but more important to him was the pleasure it entailed. They locked eyes for a moment...he couldn't see much in Cameron's countenance other than plain happiness...at _his_ happiness. Was she feigning it all? No way of knowing. He couldn't see anything beyond that face and into the computer chip which held so many secrets. For now, though...it was alright.

Cameron's eyes slid off his face and turned toward the computer screen. Without missing a beat, her hand suddenly stabbed forward, at the bottom of the list. John, his mouth full, turned clumsily and just about spit his food out in shock. He hadn't actually expected...

**Forsythe, D. room 910**

John gulped down his food forcefully and whispered, "Bingo." He reached for his cellphone.

--

Sarah Connor pressed the cellphone against her ear. She said nothing, she only waited. There was a moment's silence. She could hear John's breath on the other end, puzzled and short. Sarah absently cursed herself for the needless dramaticism and said "John?"

"Oh, there you are," John said, sounding a bit startled.

Derek Reese smirked. Sarah ignored him, although she did see that as a good sign. He didn't frown or glare when he heard her child's voice, and just a moment ago they'd been discussing ways of patching their relationship up. Derek seemed more than willing to pursue it, even eager.

Very uncle-ish. The man was a liar, no doubts there. He dodged her questions, tried to steer her in directions she wanted to stay away from. Was it born into him to avoid these sorts of things, or was dealing with familial (even if he didn't think he was part of that family) issues just something that he wasn't familiar with? Something that intimidated him? It wouldn't be surprising.

A war could do that to you. A long, terrible war. God, they had to stop this. The more Sarah was around him, around Cameron, the more she learned about just how terrible the war would be. Not only on them, but on her. On John. And the kid wanted her to stop it. She was obligated to try and fulfill that, even if...-

No, best not worry about that right now.

"Forsythe's in the manifest. Room 910, that's the ninth floor."

Sarah looked at Derek and nodded. The smile dropped from his face and he looked decidedly grim all of a sudden. Together they started for the elevators, bidding good-bye to the receptionist, who looked rather perplexed at the fact that the people who supposedly needed only to use a bathroom were now going up elevators. "How was the security office?"

"Um," John murmured, "You didn't hear the shots?"

Sarah closed her eyes tightly and shook her head a bit, wishing her son hadn't said that. That was just great. "How many dead?" she asked. Derek looked over and frowned.

"Oh, none," John clarified, sounding almost as relieved for that fact as Sarah _felt._ "I was just asking if you heard anything."

"Nothing," Sarah said, and she decided to drop it, "Get outta here, we'll handle the rest." They reached the elevator and Derek stared at the buttons for a moment, as if not understanding. After a moment's hesitation, he pressed the up-arrow button. Sarah gave him a sardonic thumbs-up, to which he replied with a one-fingered gesture of his own. Sarah idly wondered if he would have even _considered_ giving the mother of the human resistance the finger about a year ago. If they'd seen each other, chances were he would have avoided _eye-contact_ in reverence. But no, here they were. And there he was, acknowledging cooly that she wasn't a legend, that she was just a person, with personality. Flaws. And he gave her the finger.

Some typing on the other end. After a moment, John said, "Not yet, mom. I wanna expunge their camera records so they can't find out it was us."

Oh. Right. Why didn't _she_ think of that? She hadn't raised no idiot, of course. Things like this, thinking outside the box, that's what she liked to see. None of this mopey crap he was going through. She wasn't prepared for that, she didn't want to deal with it. The type of care-giving she'd given John hadn't included guiding him through things like puberty, depression...Now it came back to bite her. Did she regret focusing too much on teaching him how to be a guerilla? She'd be crazy to. Still, it would have helped to be more well-rounded. Maybe he'd be happier today.

"Well," she said, "hurry that up and go..." she was silent for a moment, staring up at the elevator ticker. Coming down steadily. Looked like a slow day for the hotel. Smiling suddenly, Sarah said, "'Expunge', eh? There's a five-dollar word." Derek grimaced at this and rolled his eyes. Sarah gave him a half-smile, half-glare. Connecting was important, damn him. She thought he'd know that by now.

John snorted. "They pound a lot of vocabulary into your head at the school," he said amidst rapid-fire typing, "Hold on, Cam. Anyway, I'll call when we're finished up here."

The elevator let out a cheerful _ding! _and slid open. The elevator itself was mercifully empty. They stepped inside and Derek pressed floor nine. Sarah said, "Be careful, honey."

A slight pause from John, one that pained Sarah slightly. Saying things like "honey" and "sweet-heart" didn't come naturally to her. It took an effort of will to say things like that. And John was conscious of that. He murmured, "You too..."

There was a click as he hung up. Sarah absently set the phone to vibrate and dropped it in her pocket. She sighed. Derek remained silent as the elevator door slid shut. Jaunty Twenties music was playing, filling the elevator with sound that Sarah would have otherwise done without. The interior walls of the lift had hand-rails and soft cushioned surfaces. The front page of a Los Angeles Times, dated 1924, had been incased in a plastic holder on the front-most wall. Sarah gave it a quick look, found that she could barely read the small type-print besides the head-line (which was unmemorable) and turned back. A loud _beep_ rang out every time the elevator ascended to a new floor. Derek was staring upward and into one of the ceiling lamps. He gave no sign of being irritated by the glare. Sarah cocked an eyebrow at him, but he didn't see it. He was deathly silent, frozen. Waiting.

Sarah inclined her head forward, all too willing to forget her problems with her son, and said, "You alright?"

Derek shoulder's jerked up a bit and he cocked his head toward her, as though surprised. They stared at each other for a moment before Derek looked down and raised his left hand to his forehead, rubbing it absently, "Sorry, what's up?"

"I was asking if you were alright," Sarah said, frowning, "You seemed a bit distant."

"Just getting myself in the zone," Derek replied, running his middle finger over his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He took in a sharp breath and looked up at the ticker. It read "6."

Sarah frowned, "You really think that's necessary?"

Derek looked at her, "You of all people should understand that it is."

She shrugged and said, "I've been complacent until recently."

A frown from Derek. His eyes widened somewhat and he raised an eyebrow; he hadn't expected her to be so frank. He mulled over that for a second and said, pointedly, "Charley?"

"We lived with him for two years," Sarah answered after a moment's hesitation. Did he really have to know that? Maybe. And maybe not. Still, she went ahead anyway. "I'd hoped we could just settle down. So did John."

There was a louder _beep_, followed by a click. The elevator doors opened and Sarah and Derek walked out, leaving the roaring Twenties behind. That music had been joyous to the point of being downright irritating. The ninth floor was a lot like the first one, except it was narrower, and the floors had a different type of carpeting. Sarah walked over to the nearest door and read aloud "901." The door immediately to the left was 920. They settled on going right.

"So what happened?" Derek asked as they started walking. Both of them were checking their pistols, and Derek was reloading his. He seemed fixated on having as much ammo to shoot as possible, even when the clip was still full.

Sarah didn't want to tell him that a dream in which John had been shot by a Terminator inspired her into flight. She had perfect faith in her feelings when it came to matters such as these, but she knew explaining it to another person would be difficult. It would make her sound crazy.

And she wasn't crazy.

"What happened was that I realized what was going on," Sarah said. "No one is ever safe."

"I'll drink to that, unfortunately," Derek replied. They quickly concealed their weapons as a grotesquely fat maid walked by, a pair of gigantic headphones attached to each ear. Music (of which no genre or lyrics could be placed) poured forth from them so loudly that Sarah could literally see the walls shaking in the maids wake. Getting past her was near-torturous. Sarah found herself rubbing her ears gently a few seconds after the maid was gone. Derek looked annoyed, but otherwise unaffected. They shared a look and had to laugh. Sarah had to admit to herself that she was grateful for the maids passage. She didn't like to think about Charley, and the terrible, terrible thing she'd done to him. To John, too. It was necessary, however. Really.

Derek said, "Skynet would have won if it used loud music instead of nukes. I think we'd have killed each other just to get it off."

Sarah cast a glance back toward the waddling behemoth, "Some would survive."

Derek looked back as well and grinned; "More power to them." There was a distant, but distinct _ding_ as the elevator took on a passenger, probably the maid. Good.

It didn't take long to reach 210. As soon as they stopped, they stared at the numbered plaque for a few seconds, as if trying to ascertain if it wasn't a trick or not. It wasn't. Sarah took a deep breath and looked at Derek. He nodded his head toward her and whispered, "What happens if he's in?"

"Let's put on the face-masks." Sarah arranged her hair to make the fit easier and slipped the balaclava over her head. She took a moment to adjust the eye and mouth pieces and looked at Derek.

"It suits you," she quiped.

Derek chuckled. "So we just knock him out?"

"Yep," Sarah said.

Derek nodded and brought out his Glock-17. Sarah did the same. "Let's do this," Derek whispered grimly; "Knock."

She knocked, rapping on the hardwood door twice in quick succession. They waited for about a minute before determining that no one was home, or at least that Forsythe was a heavy sleeper. Sarah jiggled the handle, found it locked, and quickly nodded to Derek. He nodded in return and jogged away toward the elevators to stall anyone who came onto this floor. Sarah reached into her pockets and swiftly fished out a pair of lock-picks. She pressed them into the keyhole and started probing, her tongue absently dragging itself out from her lips as she concentrated. Every noise was amplified about a hundred times to her, she could probably hear a pin drop. In the business of professional burglary, you tended to learn how to trust your extraneous senses. It took about two minutes for her defeat the lock, and she grunted as the satisfying _click!_ announced itself. She withdrew the picks and raised the Glock. Took a deep breath.

Hopefully this would get them somewhere closer to the Turk. Hopefully this wasn't a lost cause. Most of all, she desperately wanted this to be _understated. _

In the spirit of understatement, Sarah calmly pressed the door handle downward --instead of kicking the door in-- and walked into Daniel Forsythe's hotel room.

--

Derek was leaning against the wall opposite to the elevator doors, absently twirling a straw he'd found on the ground --the local maid was apparently more interested in her apocalyptically loud music than actually doing work-- when said elevator let out a loud _ding_. Derek dropped the straw and quickly placed his right hand in the side of his trench coat, where the Glock-17 strapped. He told himself he wouldn't need it. Just some yuppie going to him room, or a member of the cleaning crew. The elevator doors slid back. The roaring twenties spilled out before he could see who was inside. No need to worry, absolutely no need. Sarah was about two minutes into her break-in, she'd be done soon. No need to worry, just-

It turned out to be Cameron. Derek's right hand dropped from where it was to hang limply by its side. An amalgam of emotions dominated his face, manifesting themselves at specific points. His eyebrows raised to their highest points in stark, naked surprise. His eyes darkened with terrible, probing suspicion. Conspiracy. His mouth fell agape in utter, speechless shock.

Cameron stepped out of the elevator, looked Derek up and down, smiled absently, perhaps not seeing his expression(s) and continued on past him, heading toward her left. Derek stared at her as she did this. A billion things ran through his mind at that very instant, all too fast for him to make sense of it all. One thing quickly cut a bloody swath through all the extraneous things and reached the top of his mind. _JOHN?_

"Hey!" he yelled, raising his arm to point at her. He didn't know why he did that. To focus on something. _Something_. He didn't call her a metal bitch, or anything related to machines, because-... she-... it wasn't-

...

Cameron turned around, looking somewhat harried. She cocked her head and said, oozing politeness, "Yes?"

Derek stared at her, his arm held rigidly at her, frozen, paralyzed. He was shocked. Surprise was gone. His eyebrows had assumed a look of apology, of fright. His eyes were still dark with suspicion. His mouth had moved upward somewhat, but was still agape, agape with a grimace. A grimace of...of...

He shook his head violently, still staring at her and said, "W-where's John?"

Cameron's eyes narrowed in confusion, and the smile got a little more forced, a bit more awkward. She tilted her head a bit and said, "I don't know who you're talking about."

_She was wearing a pink shirt. Denim jeans. The pink shirt had a fucking design on it, some sort of black criss-crossy bullshit. Her hair was in a pony-tail, and it was __**short**__. _

Cameron Phillips, model TOK-715, a Terminator sent from the future to protect John, had come in wearing a blackish grey shirt with similarly colored pants. Over that shirt was a black tight-fitting jacket so she could easily conceal the small pistol she'd chosen for herself. Her hair had been loose and wasn't bound up.

She was supposed to stay with John. She was supposed to know who John Connor, leader of the future human resistance, commander of Tech-Com, was.

_**THIS WASN'T CAMERON.**_

Holy fucking shit. Derek stared at her, his mouth slowly coming unhinged again as all of this donned on him. This...this girl looked exactly like her. Not a single difference in facial features, NOT ONE. It was the face of John's protector, of the horrible _thing_ that danced in front of him several nights ago, it was the face of his-

He resisted the urge to scream and run away. He resisted the urge (the drunken, powerful, almost sensual urge) to jerk the Glock-17 out of his coat and riddle this woman with bullets until she was unrecognizable. Until she was worthless to both the world and to the machines that would come to copy her features into a skin-grafting unit.

He lowered his hand. He was still staring at her. "Cameron" stared back, slowly raising an eyebrow. Derek took a back-step. He frowned and his head hurt. Hurt a lot. His mind was filled with a lot of pain, a lot of memories, a lot of thoughts, implications, revelations. Was this important? He really didn't know. He should probably shoot her. Kill her. Interrogate her, possibly, if he was feeling...feeling...No. He didn't want to do anything. He wanted this thing, this woman, this apparition, to leave. She looked normal. Enough. No guns. She looked at you straight, like a regular person. She didn't analyze you, didn't look _through_ you. This...he wanted...no..._no..._

He couldn't. He smiled wanly and said, "Hey, sorry, I thought you were someone else." A violent chill eddied its way down his spine, getting more and more icy, more terrible with every word. He should do something. He couldn't do something. GO AWAY.

None of this had fully processed through him yet. It was all stalled, clogged. As soon as she was gone, he'd probably collapse or something due to the sheer excess of thought within him, the _weight._ He just wanted this thing to go. This _person_ to go, that was the DIFFERENCE.

"Cameron" blinked and nodded briskly, "Oh, that's OK. See you."

She walked off down the hall at a relatively business-like pace. Derek stared after her, frozen to his spot, until she disappeared around a corner.

"See you," he murmured before stumbling back against the nearest wall, with the eyes of a man who has witnessed a premonition of things to come.

He stayed there until the black-suited men, armed with assault rifles, started to come down the hall.

--

"_Punctured bi-i-cycle...on a hill-siiiide des-o-ol-a-ate..."_

John's right hand idly tapped the computer bank as he attempted the keep synch with "This Charming Man," the iPod headphone slung into his right ear. His head rocked back and forth. The computer screen, characteristic enough for the last half-hour, was dominated by a red-progress bar. Above it were the words "Deleting Archives." This was probably the eighth such progress bar in the last five minutes. John couldn't isolate any files in particular, so he'd opted to delete the entire archive. It'd probably set back the hotel back a couple of bucks, and he wasn't very interested in that at all, to say the least. Deleting the hotel's camera records would effectively erase all of their activities here, and the only witnesses saw a bunch of people in face-masks. Well, except the receptionist...but who could say whether or not she'd put two and two together to make four? Cameron was sitting next to him, probably listening in to what he was hearing at exactly the same level of sound he was hearing it at. Her eyes were fairly wide as she stared forward at him. He smiled brightly at her, feeling faintly embarrassed, in a bashful sort of way. But what the fuck, really? She wasn't gonna judge him. On he went.

_"Will nature make a man of me ye-e-et..."_

She'd never heard him sing before, even if it was imitation. He wasn't that much of a singer to begin with, though he liked to think he was at least competent at it. If he put a bit more effort into it, he thought he'd be really good. It wasn't a priority, though. Becoming good at singing was a priority for a fifteen year old with control over his life, who could make decisions for himself. John was not that fifteen year old. He continued tapping and glanced at the progress bar. Chugging along steadily, at least. Cameron continued to stare. John's hand accidently struck the brass metal of the Beretta 92 and he jerked it away to resume the motion. The brown paper-bag, addressed to "Earl" was empty, and the can of Diet Coke was half-finished.

"_When in this charming car... this cha-a-a-a-rmi-i-ing ma-a-an..."_

He drew out the last word a bit too short, and didn't use a tone he would have otherwise thought suitable for it. The Smiths probably wouldn't mind. The jaunty, thoughtful music continued to flow along. The less smooth and decidedly un-jaunty progress bar ran into a hitch and halted for a moment. John gave it a quick look as he said, "_Why pamper life's complexities when the leather runs smooth on the passenger seaaaaa-a-a-at..."_

The progress bar suddenly jumped the rest of the way to the side of the screen and turned a bright, cheerful green. The header near the top blinked away and was replaced with _"_Successful." John nodded at this and reached forward to push the "OK" button, absently singing, "_I would go out tonight...but I haven't got a stitch to wea-ar..." _Time to get out of here.

Cameron pushed herself up from the swivel chair she'd been sitting on and grabbed the back of John's hood. He abruptly stopped singing and had just enough time to grab the Beretta when Cameron dragged him down with violent abruptness and swung herself around him, drawing the SIG-Sauer out of her jacket. He hadn't even said a word to her, nor yelled, nor yelped in pain. Nothing. Something was-

John's head hit the floor with a dull smack. He saw stars. Felt dizzy. Morrissey continued to sing along without John's help as the door to the security office burst open and the man from the lobby, wielding a large, heavy pistol clambered inside. The still unlit cigarette was clutched tightly within his grimacing jaws and he aimed point-blank at Cameron. Someone yelled something in Russian.

"_This man said... it's gruesome... that someone so handsome should caaaaa-a-a-a-are..."_

John quickly rolled himself around to his back and aimed down the iron sight of the Beretta at the mafioso. For that was what he obviously, so evidently was. John's right thumb slammed the safety off, cutting the digit in the process. Cameron raised the SIG. The man, seeing the danger, stopped aiming and just squeezed the trigger. A flash of light. The heavy-set pistol bucked in his outstretched hand and slammed into Cameron's torso. She flinched back once and calmly finished adjusting her aim. John had the man down in his iron-sights first, but Cameron would be more accurate. Another man scampered in behind the first man, wielding an Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle, going to the right. John, in a sudden, still dizzied frenzy, quickly tried to correct his aim toward this newcomer. His thumb was throbbing in pain, and blood spilled down the side of his hand, intermingling with the sweat.

Cameron fired. The SIG spoke twice in loud, sharp barks and the man jerked twice in turn, blood blossoming like spring flowers on his torso. His eyes were wide with pain and sudden, terrible confusion. One in upper chest, the other just about where his heart was. He let out a strangled scream and he dropped to the floor, releasing his grip over the huge pistol. He stopped screaming as suddenly as he'd started and he started jerking around like an asphyxiated fish. Sweat poured freely over John's eyes as he finished aiming, slightly blurring his vision and irritating him. He ignored it as best he could. The second mafioso was crouching quickly, setting the collapsable stock of the assault rifle against his shoulder, and he peered down the iron-sight at Cameron. His fingers tensed up on the trigger easily, slowly. He wanted it to count, John could see that. Two more men were jumping over the body of their dead pal. John didn't see what kind of load-out they had.

_"Ah! A jumped-up pantry boy... who never knew his pla-a-ace, he said-"_

John tapped the trigger hard and the Beretta spoke, causing his arms to jerk back with the concussive force of the gunshot. The round struck the man in the leg, at about the upper calf. He bounced back against the wall and the AK-47 clattered to the floor, discharging a round. The wayward bullet struck the wall and exploded, causing smoke to billow away from the hole it had created. The man clutched his hugely bleeding leg and fell forward in abject, impotent pain, cursing. John swung his arms toward the other mafiosos, gripping the pistol tightly with increasingly slippery hands.

-"_return the rings, he knows so much about...these things!"_

The men within the door started to fill the room with sporadic, panicky gunfire, causing John to let out a short, terrified scream as he felt the _whiz-bang_ of bullets traveling around him, toward him, over him. Near his head. He heard the ricochets, saw the computer bank explode in a shower of sparks and metal. Heard Morrissey singing busily, the gunshots constantly drowning out his voice. Cameron flinched back several times as a few rounds impacted her. None went through her. They just pierced her skin and bounced off her endoskeleton, creating audible _clang_ noises. She cocked her head, almost looking amused, and dropped one of the men with a clean shot to the head. Blood and bits of bone flew out from the back of his skull and he collapsed without a sound, still holding his pistol. A rank smell began to dominate the room as the man's bowels released themselves as he expired.

The last man, not processing any of this, possibly out of adrenaline or terror, continued to fire from where he was, clutching a MAC-10 machine pistol. Flames burst from the muzzle of the grey weapon, spewing bullets in all directions. He was wearing a black face-mask, identical to the ones John and Cameron had over-taken the security office with. His outstretched hand was clammy and plaster-white, a pool of urine was quickly spreading around the crotch area of his jeans. He was saying something in loud, scrambling Russian. John absently heard the word "guys, guys!" a few times. He aimed directly for the thugs chest, suddenly not caring if he killed him or not. Everything was like swimming now, dark, slow. Light stretched down from the top to illuminate the bottom. There's terror. Cameron remained rooted to her spot, simply aiming over open sights with an air of utter dispassion at the terrified thug.

"_He knows so much about these things!"_

The SIG-Sauer barked and barely recoiled in Cameron's masterful, unrelenting grip. The bullet pierced the mafiosos neck and he dropped his uzi. Blood sprayed as though from a fire-hose onto the floor and a loud, high-pitched whistling screech emanated from his mouth. The bottom half of the face-mask went from black to splotchy red. Both of his hands darted up to his neck and he began to press down against the wound with fanatical intensity. His hands quickly became bright red. The eyes on his face were wide and carried very little recognition of much anything besides primal fear, pain. Fear of death. Pain, god, what was that like? Was it stinging? Like being punched? Or was it like a void, something you couldn't contain, something that sucked everything, all of you, into its gaping maw?

Cameron shot him in the head. A good part of the upper half of his skull blew away. The mafioso's hands relaxed, trailed downward to his stomach, and he fell head first into the pile of his dead comrades.

The music cut off for a split second and Morrissey quickly resumed, saying _"I would go out tonigh-"_

John pulled the headphone out from his ear and he laid back against the cool, tiled floor, shutting his eyes like vaults. He took in a breath. His torso, head, arms...hands were all sweating profusely. He ran a hand down his body and breathed. Coughed. There was a lot of dust in the air. His gun-wielding hand dragged down to his side, turning back and forth absently. His thumb was bleeding rather a lot now.

Cameron stood where she was for a moment, probably scanning for more assailants. The guy John had wounded, writhing in pain, was reaching toward the AK-47, and Cameron stalked forward, bent over, and snapped his neck with a loud, reverberating crack.

"We have to go, right now," she said, turning around. John opened his eyes and lifted his head up. He grabbed the iPod and stuffed it into his pocket as it still played. He started to lift himself up, and heard his knee joints popping. Got up to his feet and silently reloaded the Beretta. Cameron was staring at him. Several bullets had pierced her jacket, and she was bleeding in a few spots. She didn't heed any of this. A shit-piss smell filled the room, causing John's nostrils to flare in protest every time he took a shaky breath. Smoke everywhere. Blood all over the floor, like a fucking tidal wave had just come in through the door. One of the maffiosos was jerking up and down, his nervous system having not gotten the hint that he was dead yet.

John brought his bleeding thumb up to his mouth and looked down at it, almost with clinical detachment. A small stream of blood rivered down the side and pooled at his palm. The cut was pretty wide. The pain wasn't too bad, it was just throbbing gently. He had...

"What the fuck?" John asked, amid coughs. This hadn't fully gone through his mind yet. He was still high on adrenaline. _Shooting. Combat._ _Dead men. Blood._ The shakes would be coming soon. He resisted the urge to start whimpering in fear. None of those guys had said a word, they just blockbusted right through didn't do nothing holy **crap** he'd almost DIED they just _shot_ at them.

Christ! What the hell was that _about?!_

"Russian mob," Cameron said, stepping toward John. She was reloading her pistol, and she seemed hurried now. In the distance, John heard someone yelling in confusion, in panic. "Either Anton Pasternak phoned ahead, somehow, or someone found out we were here, and what our intentions were."

"Oh, jesus christ," John whispered, his eyes going wide. He laid a hand on the computer bank and started shaking, raising his right hand to rub at his forehead, almost looking exactly as he had when Derek Reese had woken up on their kitchen table, yelling for his brother. Cameron finished reloading and gestured, with the gun, toward the door, "We have to get out of here."

John looked up at her, still breathing heavy, "I have to call mom."

Cameron's eyes narrowed and she stepped forward, grabbing John's arm. Apparently she wasn't interested in pandering. She pulled him up from the computer bank and started walking, "Let me go, damnit!" She didn't budge. They kept walking and she pushed several corpses out of their way. John nearly tripped on one of their legs, and he had to resist the terrible urge to vomit. A person was standing at the end of the corridor, and Cameron gave him a look. It was just a guy, wearing a tacky tuxedo. He didn't look menacing, he looked frightened out of his wits. As soon as he saw the be-pistoled figures walking towards him, he bolted.

John continued to jerk and weave, trying to release himself from Cameron's soft, but binding grip. She could apply pressure if she wanted, make it painful. She wouldn't, though. John yelled at her, "Cameron, let me go!"

"It's too dangerous here," she said dully. They were approaching the lobby now, all it would take was a turn of the corner and they'd be there, several yards from the front entrance. John stopped walk and tried to pull himself away. Cameron froze as well and she whirled around. He'd stopped shaking. He had to warn his mother, goddamnit. They were in danger, all of them. Did they even know? Christ, christ, christ. John glared unabashedly at Cameron, hating her all of a sudden. Right hand was weak, it was bleeding. He raised his left hand instead and tried to punch her, clumsily. She halted it with her right hand while the punch was delivered. She cocked her head, "John, you have _no_ choice in the matter." She looked slightly pained, as if it hurt to explain this to him. As if she just wanted to drag him away without a sound, like any other, more boiler-plate member of her "species" would. Anything without emotion, without having to deal with that in him. She didn't want to hurt him.

John stared at her coldly for a moment, in silence, rooted to where he was. She tugged slightly at his hand, indicating that it'd be easier, much easier if he just cooperated. John heard a sound like fire-crackers some distance away. Oh, god. Cameron gave no sign of recognizing any of it. They stared, waiting.

John let his voice get hitched a bit, wavering, "Cam, please..." he shook his head and his mouth fell open a bit in abject sadness.

Cameron blinked. _Yes._ She said sternly, "John-"

A tear spilled down his cheek, "Please!" he cried, holding his free hand to his head.

She let him go, backing away somewhat. Her eyes were wide and apologetic. Holy christ. John quickly drew a hand over his face and felt vaguely horrible about having manipulated her this way, and so skillfully. She didn't even realize that he'd been faking it, she was so scared about hurting him, whether it was real or not. Oh god. John's eyes had turned cold again, with a slight hint of hurriedness. He turned away from Cameron and his hand dived into his pocket, reaching for the cellphone.

Suddenly he felt that it wasn't so much of a stretch for him to condone torture in the future.

The iPod headphone came out along with the cellphone. He heard the last guitar-only bit of "This Charming Man" as he feverishly pressed the buttons for his mothers cellphone number.

--

_Base folder; DForsythe, temp account_

_RE: problems_

_I know exactly what you're talking about. Continue as you were. I'm going to deal with the problem shortly. - Sarkissian. _

_RE: Turk?_

_I have it, it's all secure. Someone killed Andy, however, and it was definitely not that rat Dmitri. Weird. You'll have your info soon enough. I expect the payment to be prompt, as you said. - Sarkissian_

_RE: security_

_You think you have problems? You're SAFE compared to me, goddmanit. I'll arrange for some of the guys to "stay" at your damned hotel. Quit your whining before I decide I'm no longer invested in your "business." - Sarkissian_

It was a lot more than Sarah had expected. And a lot worse, too. The hotel room, barring a few interesting magazines and some obvious paperwork related to the awareness program, was bare of any useful documentation. Except for the computer, which was a veritable gold mine. And Sarah wasn't sure whether she should be happy or angered at that. Who the hell was Sarkissian?

The man in the photo, of course. Well, now they had a name to match with the face. Great. Where did he live, though? What was his address, his phone number? Anything like that would have been even better, but no... She had only the confirmation that Forsythe was definitely involved in the theft of the Turk. Somehow. How did she feel about this? Really, how?

Good. Which wasn't to say that she was happy, not necessarily. The introduction of yet another antagonist into her life was never viewed upon with warmth. And it probably meant that this man, Forsythe, might be involved with the creation of Skynet.

How had that happened? Why was he pursuing a business with this shady man, this man who'd gotten Andy killed? Who killed Dmitri and his sister? How much did Daniel know about what he was doing...? She'd long since stopped asking the question of how a regular person can create a computer system that decides to annihilate a whole race. These things simply happened. Was it fate? None but what they could make. If this man played a part in the future war, then Sarah would do all she could to stop him.

Even kill him? Perhaps. Things had changed now that she knew Daniel was definitely involved in all this. They could use him to find out more about this Sarkissian character, but she didn't want to leave him be without at least...doing something to make sure he couldn't play a role in that future she so desperately wished to avoid. Ever.

All things considered, she felt good. Purpose was restored, and they were no longer flying blind...until the next snag came around.

She closed out of the emails and tried to check for anything in Sarkissian's profile, via a link through the inbox.

**You are unauthorized to view this page. Please obtain permission from the hotel staff. -- Sincerely, The Checkers Staff.**

Right then, time to leave. She shut off the computer --there were tons of things that threw her off about these things. She hadn't liked them back in 1999, and they were doubly confusing in 2007-- and gave one last look to the hotel room. This was just the beginning of something...she could feel it. She sighed.

_Snap...click!_

Sarah froze for a split second, her eyes going wide at the sudden shock of what she had just heard. The shock wore off almost as soon as it had entered her. She lowered into a crouch and dived to the left --a randomly chosen direction-- and winced as a bullet crashed into the armoire she'd been standing in front of. Chips of wood sprinkled down on top of her as she landed with a loud _thump._ She rolled to the side, unholstered her pistol, and swung it in the direction from where the round had come. Her shoulder ached in protest as she did this; she still bore the scar from when Cromartie had shot her.

She scanned the room, the Glock-17 held outstretched in front of her, peering down the iron sights. She was staring into Daniel's bedroom. It had bachelor-sized bed, along with a computer desk, two side-tables, and a shuttered closet door to the immediate left of the bed. A red laser sight glanced out from it, probing. It settled on her leg, which Sarah jerked back up to her buttocks as another bullet flew out from the closet, breaking some of the shutters cleanly in half. Smoke billowed out, almost as if the little room was on fire. Dust sprang up from the carpet as the bullet struck. Sarah scrambled up and laid her back against the corner of the entrance that led into the rest of the hotel room.

Another bark, loud and reverberating. The huge round tore a hole through the wooden wall, just above Sarah's head. The gun being used by her assailant sounded like an Israeli Military Industries XIX Desert Eagle, .50 caliber.

_Fuck. _

Sarah pivoted around the corner and fired four times into the closet, tightly controlling the recoil of the Glock to ensure accurate hits. Dust and splinters of wood cascaded down from the shutters. The red laser beam jerked up as one of the bullets evidently struck home. Sarah grunted in some satisfaction, but stayed exactly where she was. There was a moment of silence, and she found herself idly wondering where Derek was. Someone was on to them, goddamnit.

The red light returned. Sarah dived to the right, dodging the passage of three .50 rounds. She paused, breathing heavily. Wait, what did this mean-

She heard the closet door burst open; literally collapsing, sending beams of wood every which way as the occupant tore it down. Dust and splinters sprayed out. Slow, menacing footsteps from Forsythe's room. Servo-motors and tiny, almost inaudible _whirs_.

Sarah stood up, very calmly, brushing some dust off of her. Outside, she heard rapid-fire gunshots, answered by short, barking pistol retorts. Things were going to hell in a hand basket. Derek screamed "SARAH! SARAH?"

She ran for the door, tightly controlling her breathing and not allowing the piercing terror, that horrible feeling in her heart to spread and infect her entire body. She tore the door open and risked a single, cool look back into Forsythe's room

A man stared at her, down the sights of a jet-black, titanium coated Desert Eagle. He was huge, bigger than all the Tee Triple Eight's they'd encountered in the last several weeks. He wore an understated blue button shirt, along with regular, extra-sized denim jeans. He wore sunglasses.

He had brown, crew-cut hair. An angular, Germanic face. Sunglasses hung on the bridge of his nose, obscuring his pale green eyes.

Funny. She almost felt comforted by seeing it, realizing that the last time she'd seen one of its model, Cyberdyne Systems T-800 Model 101, it had given her and John a "thumbs-up" as it descended into a pit of molten metal, having just saved their lives.

She was almost comforted. _Almost._

She cooly took in the Terminator's appearance and shut the door behind her. A .50 round tore through, but it missed.

--

Derek sprinted past Sarah almost as soon as she was out the door, barely avoiding a large bullet that came crashing through said door. Sarah turned tail, probably seeing the mafiosos who were chasing her brother-in-law, and ran along side him.

"There's metal," Sarah said, reloading her pistol as Derek did the same.

_Oh christ_ was all Derek could think. Things had gone to hell in a hand basket. A bunch of suited thugs wielding assault rifles had ambled their way toward him down the hall, from where the Cameron look-alike had gone. They had ignored Derek until he shot one of them in the head, after which they deemed him a problem. It didn't take long for their force of munitions to send him running, barely avoiding getting a round in the skull himself. And now there was-

The door to Forsythe's room collapsed in a cascade of dust and hardwood.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK," Derek yelled. He peered down the hall, sighted the obvious Model 101 (those things were favorites with Skynet. They were imposing enough to be used liberally on the battlefield, which sort of decreased their proficiency as infiltrators, as they got to be pretty well-known. Still, just seeing them sent chills down your spine, they were so fucking big,) and fired twice at it. He missed both times. The T-800 held a rather beefy pistol in its right hand and absently raised it to fire. Behind it, the three surviving mobsters crouched in perfect, terrified unison and started to shoot at the Terminator. The T-800 bounced forward and fell to the ground under the pressure of something like a million 7.62x39mm rounds hitting it all at once.

Derek whooped in delight at the hapless mafiosos shooting their own "ally" and continued sprinting, sending a few bullets toward them for good measure. He missed. Sarah ran backwards for a moment and put a few bullets into the skull of the Terminator. It got up, peered at the retreating resistance fighters, and turned to deal with the mafiosos. Derek and Sarah never got a chance to see what it did with them, for they turned the corner and Derek could see the elevator doors. They absently heard a spate of gunfire further off in the building, and Derek felt ice run down his spine. Oh christ.

"C'mon, go, go!" he breathed.

Sarah didn't argue. They just about flew the rest of the way and Derek stabbed the down button. They both took positions against each others backs, pistols outstretched. Derek was heaving up and down, nearly beat. First action and here he was barely able to stand. He should have rested a bit longer, goddamnit. His gut hurt like a motherfucker.

"Well, this is getting interesting," he murmured.

"Shut up," Sarah spat. She fired off once, and Derek yelled, "What, what?!"

Silence from Sarah, and then, "Sorry."

Derek growled, coaxing a shrug from her. They both looked up at the elevator ticker. Almost there... They resumed their quick --hopefully quick-- vigil.

"Did you hear any gunfire?" Sarah asked.

"Uh, no."

"Damnit."

Almost as soon as she said this, Sarah fired her pistol three times in quick succession. Derek couldn't look back to see what it was, for a black-suited thug came round the corner. Derek adjusted his aim a bit, watched the thug sight him, turn to run away, and dropped him with a shot to the chest. The man jerked back and collapsed, dead. Derek reloaded. He made a questioning noise, and he was answered by the moaning of a middle-aged man. Derek cooly waited for Sarah to finish off the thug she'd dropped, keeping his pistol turned toward the corner. Someone in the hotel room nearby was screaming bloody murder, yelling about how the cops would get them and take them away to prison.

"Finish him off," Derek said.

"He's cool where he is," Sarah responded. Derek sighed and whirled around. He sighted the prostrate mafioso and aimed down the iron sight at his head. Sarah pushed his arm down just as he tightened his index finger to squeeze the trigger. She gave him a meaningful look, indicating that he should leave well enough alone. Staring at her, Derek re-positioned his aim slightly and fired three times. They both stared down at the thug, three gaping holes in his chest cavity. Sarah turned to him, eyes full of sudden, insane rage.

"You mother-" she started.

_Ding!_

_"-morning. Every evening, ain't we got fun?"_

They turned and sprinted onto the elevator lift, barely managing to dodge a liberal amount of .50 cal bullets.

"Second floor!" Sarah yelled. Derek pressed the barrel of his Glock against the "2" button and the elevator doors slid shut. Almost a second before closing completely, the frame of a rather large man appeared in the door slit.

They both raised their pistols in anticipation. They never got a chance to fire, though, as the elevator gave a halting jerk and started downward. The 20s tune continued on unabashed, its long-dead singer completely unaware of their situation.

_"Not much money, oh but honey, ain't we got fun?"_

Somewhere up above them, a loud, reverberating double pound echoed down the elevator shaft, followed by silence. The Terminator had withdrawn. Derek took in a deep breath and fell back against the plush elevator walls, just in time for Sarah to smack him hard in the face. Derek blinked and started to draw his hand up to-

She smacked him again, on the other side. Derek flinched back this time, frowning, and gave her a side-long look.

"You murdering bastard," Sarah spat.

Derek raised an eyebrow, "He'd have killed you without blinking."

"I know," she replied, "And that's the difference between me and-"

_Ding!_ _"Times are bum and getting bummer! Still we have fun..."_

Derek trained his pistol over Sarah's shoulder as she raised hers with both hands. The doors slid open. Daniel Forsythe, resplendent in a peach over-coat and yellow hat, stood in the opening, eyes wide. Barely missing a beat, Derek and Sarah calmly stalked over to him and dragged him inside. His hat flew off his head and drifted away as the doors closed. The elevator continued down towards floor two. They both trained their guns on Forsythe, who raised his hands over his head. The man was pretty chubby, and his soft face, now absent of glasses, had gone stark white in terror.

"W-what the is t-this?!" Forsythe blubbered.

"We are _so_ lucky today," Derek said absently to Sarah. He was just about ready to kill this bastard, what with the whole "Terminator in the room" deal.

"And yet we aren't," Sarah said evenly, staring at Daniel, "What's Sarkissian's address and phone number?"

_"In the meantime...in between time, ain't we got fun?"_

Daniel paused. Who the fuck was Sarkissian? Forsythe paused for a bit too long and said, in a low, almost deadened voice, "Uh...who-"

Sarah lowered the gun and bashed the barrel against his gut. Daniel let out a horrendous cry of pain and doubled over, raising his right hand in a weak attempt to fend her off. Sarah withdrew the pistol and aimed, "Ready to talk?"

"Go to hell, bitch," Forsythe spat. Sarah's mouth fell open.

_Ding!_ Sarah and Derek whirled around, watching the ticker. It read "5." What the hell-

The elevator doors slid open and bullets came spilling through, prompting Derek and Sarah to take cover at the sides. Loud, frenzied Russian followed. Forsythe, still doubled over, yelled, "Don't shoot, you idiots!"

Derek stabbed the elevator button frantically as Sarah blind-fired past the corner with her pistol. Forsythe hobbled to the side and laid himself out against the wall. Tearing noises as the AK bullets struck the soft cushioned elevator walls.

_"The rich get rich and the poor get children..."_ on went the song, which was beginning to seriously irritate the living shit out of Derek.

He side-stepped, pistol raised, and fired twice down the corridor, which was occupied by about five mafiosos, all crouched or standing, Kalashnikovs at the ready. Two had pistols, but bullets were bullets. Derek didn't try to select a target, he just fired off twice and back-stepped into the elevator, barely avoiding a wall of lead. Sarah yelled to Forsythe, "Just tell us and we'll let you go!"

"Never!" Daniel cried theatrically. The elevator doors began to slide shut, halting the flow of bullets. Frantic Russian from behind, followed by a stampede of footsteps. They were gonna head them off again. Sarah, evidently realizing the same thing, cried, "Motherfu-

She halted in mid-sentence and holstered her pistol, drawing her cellphone out. She pressed it against her ear;

"John? Oh, christ, thank god. Get out, get out now, we're stuck on the-"

"-No, don't bother. We'll be fine, just get...John, do- John. _John."_

Forsythe eyed Derek and Derek eyed Forsythe over open sights. Derek shrugged and Forsythe tilted his head a bit, eyebrow raised. Elevator started moving down.

"John, listen to me...Sto-... John, I swear to god, if you do that- Oh, fine, we're heading down to the second floor, just wait for us."

She snapped off the cellphone and sighed, "Stubborn little..."

"He cares about ya," Derek said, smiling gently.

"I know, it's just-"

_Ding! "...Ain't we got fun?!"_

The doors opened, disgorging a hail of gunfire. Derek was beginning to get a headache. In the meantime, Sarah turned back to Daniel Forsythe and said, "Daniel, just tell us before I let him shoot you."

Forsythe spat at her, "You...idiots. You're from the future, aren't you?"

Sarah and Derek shared a look, which was interrupted sporadically by flying, super-heated rounds of lead. The bullets stopped for a second and one of the Russians yelled, "GRANADO!" or something close to that effect. A tiny frag grenade bounced into the elevator. Sarah scrambled forward and picked it up, and then tossed it back from whence it came. Terrified screams followed, and then scrambling footsteps. A Russian dived into the elevator and Derek punched him in the face and forced him back out again.

"Explain," Sarah said cooly, sending a few bullets down the hall.

_KA-BOOM!_

Daniel glared at her, "You're here to stop Skynet," he said, and quite rightfully. But he sounded...

Derek's mouth fell open, a mixture of rage and shock dominating his face, one almost fit to rival his expression when he saw the Cameron duplicate. He sounded ACCUSING.

**AC**_C_**US**_**ING?**_**!**

"Don't bother," Forsythe went on. Both of them dropped their pistols to their sides, staring at him in mute horror, "It can't be stopped. You _won't_ stop it."

"What are you...?" Sarah trailed off, sounding...just terrified, almost. Angry. Very angry. Derek was just...how could anyone...The elevator doors shut.

"Let me go," Forsythe said, "If you let me go, I'll put in a good word for you. I won't help you find Sarkissian."

_A good word._ "That thing in your room-" Derek said.

Daniel laughed in his face, looking somewhat annoyed that Derek had gotten him off the whole "let me go" subject, "You're from the future! Shouldn't you know what it is?"

Derek knew what it was. He raised the pistol, stabbing it toward Forsythe, "Let's kill him," he said. "I can't...how can you do this, you fucking prick? You betray your own fucking species?"

Daniel shook his head, "No, I haven't betrayed anyone. Skynet will not destroy the human race. It will _free_ it. The chosen ones shall live as the rest are _nuked_ into fucking oblivion."

_Chosen._ A lot was piling up here. A **lot.**__Sarah and Derek glanced at each other again, more than a little overwhelmed by the information they were suddenly receiving. It would be foolish to say that they'd been expecting something along these lines. This was way too much, he could barely process it. Sarah looked...shell-shocked.

Derek really wanted to shoot him. He looked down at his left hand and that found half of the nails had been chewed off. Christ, he hadn't even noticed he'd been doing that.

Daniel stared at the two of them, alternating his glance every second or so. He looked frightened, probably of being killed, and yet at the same time appeared utterly smug in the knowledge that he was sure neither Sarah nor Derek possessed. He looked...hopeful. Like they were playing into his hands, or something.

_"The rich get rich and the poor get laid off...in the meantime...in between time, ain't we got fun?"_

"I promise you," he said, "that when the bombs fall, you'll be spared. Really. Just let me go..."

--

"Attention residents," said a voice over the intercom, "This is the manager, uh...we've called the police department and they're sending every available car they have. Just stay in your rooms and wait it out. Don't panic."

John looked back down at the elevator doors and muttered, "Too late for that." He was sucking a bit on the cut on his thumb, trying to assuage the dull pain he felt. Every now and then he heard sporadic staccatos of gunfire. It gave him the chills every single time. Each was a moment where his mother could be killed. Which made further blasts of gunfire a mixture of comfort and dread.

Cameron didn't respond to his comment. She was kind of pissed at him. John didn't think she realized that he'd been fake-crying, but she was mad all the same that he'd opted to stay and help his own freakin' mother rather than run away. He really didn't feel like considering the fact that she'd let go of him in the first place. Only that she did, that was what mattered. If he thought about _why_ she did it, and how he got her to, then he'd get all distracted, and that wasn't what he wanted right now. Wanted to stay focused.

John started tapping his foot. Cops were on their way. This day was getting so fucking complicated, and seemed happily able to eclipse the last few days of his week in its horribleness. God, they had to hurry, or this would turn into an even bigger clusterfuck real fast. He hoped that they'd found something useful at least.

A door further down the hall opened up, which jerked John back into the present. He whipped his head toward the noise and reached into his jacket for the Beretta. Cameron moved forward, positioning herself in front of John. She stared as well.

Four black-suited men came through a gun metal green door and immediately made a bee-line for another, similar door nearby. They were carrying an amalgam of death-dealing devices, in one form or another. John tensed up and drew the pistol, lifting himself up from where he'd been leaning on the wall. Cameron looked back at him and shook her head. One of the mafiosos sent a look over to them and seemed to freeze for a moment. Gave them a look. Cameron raised her hands in mock dismay, her face becoming a mask of fright and panic. The mafioso snickered and went on, ignoring them. Cameron's face went blank again and she looked at John, expecting-

"Cam, we gotta-" John began.

"No," Cameron denied immediately, "We have to avoid potential violence towards you."

"They're going up to _kill_ my mother."

Cameron looked at him, eyebrows furrowing. He stared back, eyes wide and pleading. He wondered if he should turn on the waterworks again, but decided against it. That would be cruel, and he felt horrible enough already.

"Do you want me to kill them?" she asked tonelessly, cocking her head towards the last retreating thug. She said it so simply, so...business like. Creepy as fuck.

John looked down, gulping. They had to hurry, the gunmen were just about gone now. The word _"yes"_ was on his lips. Holy god, though, how could he say something like that? That was crazy. Cameron nodded her head toward him, expectantly.

God help him, he nodded. Why the fuck not? Had to protect his mother. He...

"Don't kill them," John said, as Cameron began to stalk off after the gunmen, "Just put them out of commission."

There was a moment of silence as she walked. John frowned, wondering if she'd deny him that. But no, she said, "Alright. Hide. Don't do _anything._"

John nodded at no one in particular and sighed as his protector disappeared behind the still opened door. He stuck the Beretta in his jacket again and started clicking his heels together idly. The elevator ticker let out the occasional beeps, indicating that the elevator was still a few floors up. The mafiosos would want to catch Sarah and Derek while they were in a confined space. God, how had this all gone to hell so easily? What the hell happened? Someone must have seen something, heard, or saw, _anything._ But how? Really, how? They'd been so fucking careful.

Part of this was his fault. He knew that from the moment the dude from the lobby, now dearly departed, kicked in the security office door, wielding his huge fucking gun. If John had just let Cameron work Anton Pasternak over a bit, they'd know that the place was _infested_ with a bunch of Russian mobsters. But no, nah, nope. He let his morals get in the way. He couldn't stand the thought of torture and then simply washing his hands of it. He _wasn't like that!_ And now his mother was in danger...so was Derek. He thought he fucking hated Derek, but the man was his uncle. He'd fucking die if they were killed. Literally. He would die. Without his mother to guide him, to train him...he was at sea with no hope of rescue. Cameron could protect him, but she was just one against a world of potential enemies. He'd be lost.

Just thinking about it gave him the shakes. Most of it was from combat, just being all jittery and shit. Flying bullets... that kind of shit did you in, mentally. And John was fifteen, for chrissake. He knew what was expected of him, but... Terminators were fine. They were evil (Cameron?) He knew they could be defeated, he'd seen it happen twice. They were an uncompromising enemy (Cameron, uncle Bob?), one that didn't even hate you for what you stood for, anything like that. They were creatures of point A to point B (Cameron?)

Someone came walking down the hall a few meters away, from past the corner it seemed. John gave the guy a look. He wore a plain white buttoned shirt, tan khakis. He wasn't much taller than John. At this distance he couldn't make out too much in the way of facial features. The guy was sort of huddling, looking over his shoulder. Just a scared resident. John returned, absently, to his thoughts.

Humans _screaaamed_ when you shot them. They had souls. When you killed them, they just died. It wasn't like being shut down. They bled a lot, screamed, cried for their mothers. He fucking hated this. He had to shoot human beings today. He had to shoot and help to kill the very sorts of people he would come to lead (maybe.) That was fucked up. He had wanted to keep the fight to Skynet, goddamnit. All of the shit he'd felt when Sarah went off to murder Miles Dyson had re-emerged as soon as the subject of killing Andy was brought up. This wasn't what was...it was terrible. He wanted it to stop.

There was a distant thud of an explosion from further up, which caused John to jerk up and stare at the elevator, dread rising in his chest. He half-expected the elevator to come screaming down, bringing his family hurtling to their dooms. But there was nothing, which didn't exactly relieve him. What was happening up there? He shifted on his feet and kept his eyes fixed on the ticker. A simple, yellow-lit down arrow flickered back at him. It gave no indication of whether his mother and uncle were dead, and it really didn't seem to care, either. John glowered at it and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.

He listened. No more gunshots. He heard footsteps approaching. Probably the dude he saw a few moments ago. Some weird noises coming from the stairs, intermingled with grunts of pain. Cameron was going to work. He wondered if they had any chance in hell of overpowering her, that maybe he shouldn't be too cavalier in ordering her off to go do something violent for him. His mom alone had managed to destroy a T-800, after all... God, there was too much ambiguity. He was way too stressed for someone his age-

_Click._

Eyes widening until they resembled dinner plates, John whipped the Beretta out of his jacket, slammed the safety down (cutting his thumb _again_), and pointed it into the face of the white-buttone-

Michael Oxferod stared at him from behind the sights of a Browning Hi Power pistol, eyes narrowing substantially. His head was kind of tilted to the side, giving John a cold, almost appraising stare, like a bird examining a worm. John's face was the very definition of shock; all stretched back, eyes huge, eyebrows elevated, mouth agape. He looked as if he'd just witnessed an explosion or something. Like he'd seen pigs with wings playing basket ball with cigar-smoking dogs. How was- why- hee...

His _mind_ was coming _unhinged. HE was going NUUUTS._

"John..." Michael said slowly, shaking his head a bit. At least he looked confused to. He kept the pistol elevated and gave John another side-long look. "?"

He didn't actually _say _? but it certainly felt as if he should have. John realized he must look like a statue of some sort, so he moved his eyes down to the pistol. His bangs were in kind of in the way though, so instead he just watched his hair. He was going through the same motions Derek had experienced when he saw the girl who was Cameron yet was human.

This was the kid he...punched. In the head. And forced...into the bench. Because he sat with Cheri Westin. Gave him splinters. Got detention over all of that. And here he was...pointing a gun at this face. Having a gun from the _kid_ also pointing a _gun_ at his _face._ That thought didn't make sense, hold on a second. Was he coming to exact some sort of protracted fucking vengeance?

"What...are you doing here?" John asked him, the words trailing out of him like molasses.

_Ding._ The elevator doors slid open, disgorging a rather large, hulking Austrian man who was wearing sunglasses. Michael let out a yelp of terror and started to run in the other direction. The Terminator stalked out of the elevator, sent a look toward John, toward Michael in the other direction, rapidly disappearing past a corner, and walked over to the other elevator, pressing the call button. He cocked a rather beefy Desert Eagle and stood patiently in front of the second elevator shaft doors, probably waiting for his mother and Derek.

You would swear you heard something snap in John's head. He turned slowly to look at the Terminator. Exactly the same, sans the biker jacket and pants. This would be hilarious if it wasn't so surreal, and so fucking...

Thoughts drained from his head. He felt positively dizzy, like it was blood being re-routed away from his brain. The world was spinning gaily. He cocked his head sharply, almost like a machine would. Resettled. Stared at the Terminator.

He wanted to hug him or run away. Pseudo-dad right here, standing in front of him. The Terminator looked at him carefully and said, "Go away."

He should probably shoot him. Where was Cameron? He felt dead, like someone shot him. He was shot. No he wasn't. He'd be bleeding if he was shot. But his thumb was bleeding again; blood was dripping and everything. Did that mean he was shot? Perhaps...perhaps...John's tongue was lolling out from his mouth in dull concentration. He stared at his hair and the Terminator. He realized that he was thinking, just a bit, like a lunatic right now, that he wasn't being fully rational, that perhaps he had snapped under the sudden unlikely appearances of these two "people." Mike and the Terminator. Easy seeing...yeah. Terminator was there to kill his family. He didn't know why. Maybe that was its assignment. Mike, he didn't know. That was kind of weird. Just a bit weird.

He was shaking like a wet dog. Didn't realize that. He stared at the Terminator. Had to get himself back. The Terminator looked at him carefully and said, "Go away, now."

Terminator. Uncle Bob? No.

Huh...he felt really tired.

John looked down at the rest of the Terminator. It was wearing a sky blue shirt, which was really quite ill-suited for this weather, as well as denim jeans with a designers label. He had a belt with several grenades strapped to it, along with two huge clips of .50 rounds. John looked up at him. The Terminator looked back.

"Who're you waiting for?" John asked, his voice kind of high and almost dreamy, euphoric sounding.

The Terminator responded immediately, "Two people who broke into a hotel room on the ninth floor."

"Wow," John said, "You gonna catch them?"

"I am going to shoot them. Go away."

"Wow," John repeated, blinking a bit. Things were kind of slow. He was kind of...wow. Behind him, Cameron opened the gun metal door, having religiously beaten up the mafiosos, and immediately started to walk towards John and the Terminator, her eyes locking onto the latter. She unslung her SIG-Sauer. Down the hall, Michael Oxferod crouched near the corner, trying to ignore the influx of people rushing to get away. Police sirens echoed. A little further up in the elevator shaft were Derek and Sarah, moving steadily downward. Daniel Forsythe was dead. The remaining mafiosos who were conscious were busily freaking over the losses they'd sustained and were unanimously deciding to book it.

On the ninth floor, the Cameron look-alike, peering into a bank of monitors, observed all of these events with increasing dread. On the computer bank next to her was a memo entitled "SKYNET - SUBMISSION. KNOWLEDGE. YOKE. NUKES. ELEVATE. TEACH." The background featured a pale yellow eye staring down at a mushroom cloud.

The Terminator raised the Desert Eagle and fired twice at Cameron just as she moved to pull the trigger. The first bullet struck her in the chest and sent her bouncing back. The second hit her at the same spot and forced her to the ground. As this exchange occurred, John scooted forward under the Terminators arm. The Terminator moved a hand to bash John out of the way. John's hand bloodied hand darted forward and pulled the pins on two of the grenades, still attached to the Terminator's belt.

"JOHN, YOU-" Cameron was yelling.

But he didn't hear the last part, for the Terminator brought his hand around and "smacked" him in the torso. The force, which was like that of an anvil, sent John sprawling several feet away. The wind knocked right out of him and he couldn't breath. Something felt broken. Possibly a rib. Cameron rolled her way toward him and threw herself on top of John, trying to cover every square inch of his body with her own, juxtaposing herself in the path of the inevitable shrapnel. John was still sort of loony. He raised a hand and tried to stroke her hair, but she grabbed the arm and forced it down with frantic, violent force.

The first grenade exploded, which threw the Terminator, laterally, into the wall behind it, crushing the foundation and sending plaster and wood everywhere. It took the brunt of the shrapnel, most of which penetrated through its skin and disrupted the inner-workings of its endoskeleton. Shrapnel jackknifed through the air and John yelled in pain as a flaming hot piece pierced his arm. Cameron shook convulsively as a dozen fragments washed over her. The second grenade exploded almost in unison with the first, which tossed both Cameron and John bodily through the air several feet down the corridor. Two more burning shards of shrapnel arched into his back, and blood rushed out of his mouth as he impacted the floor. Cameron rolled a few feet further and started jerking convulsively, letting out a high-pitched, metallic screech.

There was a hissing roar. A freight train noise. Everything went black. John absently ran a hand down his chest and found that his shirt was literally burning off.

He heard running footsteps. And there was nothing else.


	13. Up the River

**Flight is Right**

Chapter Thirteen: Up the River

As cliche as it might sound, John Connor thought he was in heaven. Or at least on his way there. He heard no choirs singing in the distance, no cherubic figures floating in and out of his field of view, no ineffable voice whispering in his ear... He heard nothing but creaking, actually. The creaking of tiny, rubber-over-metal wheels. What he saw was a bright light, completely engulfing his vision. Like staring into the sun, only without the deadly gamma rays. The light, which was colorless, was exceptionally bright at the center, almost blinding. At the edges it was more blurred, you could make out shapes. Almost dark. That's why he thought he was going to heaven. He felt that he was in a tunnel, and he was moving forward.

John wasn't that religious. He supposed he believed in God because his mother did, even if she didn't make that whole thing a fixture in their lives. He believed in divinity with all the faith of a man who doesn't visit church on Sundays. And here he found himself. Dead. Was it right to hate God because He took you away before you could do what you were destined to do? Some people felt that way, yeah. In John's case it was literally true, although that wasn't the reason why, not really. He just wanted to live. Like a...normal person, really. That was why he wanted to take out Skynet, stop the war before it even began. So he could live his life the way he wanted. And avoiding the deaths of over three billion people was a plus too, he supposed. And now he was dead.

He was taking it rather well, he supposed. He wasn't crying or anything. Or shaking. Or blinking...

Come to think of it, John wasn't doing much at all. He tried to move his head. Couldn't. He felt paralyzed. Maybe this was part of the ascension. Up to heaven. God was acting kind of prickish to him, actually. He should complain when he got up there. The creaking sound continued. He realized, dully, that the bright light, representing heaven itself, was wavering somewhat, almost mechanically. Not at all divinely inspired.

He also realized that he felt rather uncomfortable. His head was pushed up against something. It was soft, fluffy. He still couldn't move. But he could feel. His arms were bound up to his sides by something hard and leathery. He was laying down. Felt_ really_ uncomfortable, though.

There was a shuddering jerk. John's body bounced up a bit, but the motion was arrested by something...restraining. Restraints? Yes. He wasn't going to heaven. His eyes drifted idly to the side for the first time. He saw white walls. Tried to look down. He saw a bit of that too; coral-inscribed white tiles. He heard a voice behind him, speaking in low tones. Another voice answered the first. He couldn't understand them, but it was enough...Oh, thank God. He was in a hospital. God was off his hate-list, having just occupied a spot between "Skynet" and "hair."

He tried to speak and only succeeded in moving his mouth a bit. No words were coming. A man's face came slowly into his vision, from the left, silhouetted against the light (a medical lamp, he supposed. He was on a stretcher of some sort.) Said face was extremely chubby, very wide in the cheeks and possessing three formidable chins. Large glasses dominated the top half, and John couldn't really see the color of his hair. John locked eyes with him and tried to give him an indication that he was conscious, aware. John couldn't make out a reaction from him. The face retracted, and someone was speaking again. John suddenly felt an odd, wet coldness on his right forearm. Before he could fully process this, a loaded syringe penetrated his arm and...

He couldn't move his eyes. They were suddenly fixed to that light again. Couldn't blink. He felt a stinging pain as the needle plunged into him, but he couldn't react to it, not even wince. He was fully paralyzed now. The voices, for whatever reason, became much, much clearer, almost feeling like compensation for the loss of his ability to move.

"Didn't even recognize him," said the first voice.

"I find _that_ hard to believe," said the other. The first voice was a bit deeper, more husky. The other was kind of sleazy, almost hissing. A definite lisp, too.

"He's a lying little shit, no doubts there. Just wants to get out and find his bitch. Save her from the scaaaary robots."

"Hah. So what'd that bastard do?"

"Tore up the back side of a mall, I forget the name. Santa something? Who gives a shit, I don't get enough off-hours to enjoy myself anyhow. Anyway, big guy. Wore a motorcycle jacket and took a few shots at her."

"Something about a cop too, right?"

"Well, someone got killed, so I guess Mr. Policeman wasn't doing his job."

"So...what's the trouble, then? Why'd they need Johnny boy?"

John didn't react to the sound of his name, not physically. Inside he was sort of huddling in a mental corner, confused. He was frightened out of his wits, actually.

"Well...funny thing, that. 'Bout a year ago, some terrorist just blew away an entire police station. Killed a bunch of people. He looks exactly like the guy who shot at his girlfriend today."

"But he didn't recognize him?"

"Well, I told you. He's a liar."

There was a brief silence, punctuated only by the creaking of the stretcher as it rolled along its course. John was beginning to think that this wasn't a hospital. He'd just been...There was a grenade. The hotel. He got rid of the fucking Terminator that was about to kill his mother and Derek Reese. But he'd been hurt...so why was he...in this place and not a hospital? That didn't make much sense.

"There it is, I can take care of this."

"A'ight. See you later."

"Bye..." silence for a moment, footsteps walking away "...Idiot." He heard a chuckle, low and nasal. Then more creaking. A tiny rush of air as the stretcher moved along...John blinked suddenly. Air...his sense of feeling was coming back. He rolled his eyes experimentally. Then he quickly turned them back up toward the light, not wanting to alert the attendant. They continued on into the room. The guy did something with the the stretcher, placing it against the wall and bringing up guard-rails that John hadn't noticed before. He turned off the over-hanging lamp and John resisted the urge to blink in response. The glare was overwhelming, but this guy wasn't good. He felt like a bad person, really. John didn't want to give him an excuse to do anything, so he made it seem as if he was still paralyzed.

As the attendant brought down the lamp and slung it under the stretcher, John's eyes drifted to take in his physique. He was fat. Wore a white shirt and off-white pants. A riot-prod hung limply against his hip, along with a black radio. His hair was golden blonde, and his mouth was kind of askew, arranged in a permanent smirk. John wiggled his hands a bit, feeling the semi-soft surface of the stretcher underneath him. His other hand drifted up against the...restraints. They were hard and leathery, as he'd noticed previously. He wasn't supposed to move. He was locked down. His eyes trailed down to his body, and found it dressed in a white tee-shirt and pants.

This _was_ a hospital. More to the point, it was a mental hospital. John was aware of the semi-metal feeling in the palm of his right hand. He was...clutching something. He'd wait for the guy to leave him alone, because he felt that he was that sort of guy who would do a thing like that. The guy was gonna leave him in here, thinking him paralyzed and afraid. This attendant was a douchebag. He stood up and looked down at John as the teenager locked his eyes toward the ceiling. There was nothing for about a minute, just silence. A pins and needles feeling in his limbs; they were falling asleep. John's forehead was itchy. He wanted to move around a bit, but he was afraid of the prod. He wished he was unrestrained. How did he end up in this place? Where was Cameron, his family? He wanted to see them...

The guy let out a huff of breath, and John nearly flinched back as the mans face leered into his, suddenly only a few inches away. He had pale blue eyes, which stared into John's searchingly. He lowered his face a bit. A wave of revulsion washed over John's entire body as the guy licked his cheek, dragging his tongue up almost to the teenagers nose. The act was so surprising, so horrendous that his torso convulsed and jerked up in the air for a moment. The attendant didn't notice. He drew his tongue back in and let out a smacking sound.

He could probably head butt this guy real easy. That'd be _great._ He never really got the chance to do anything though, for the attendant withdrew a moment later and stood up. He grunted, sounding thoughtful. Stared down at John, waiting for a reaction. John remained perfectly still, feigning unawareness. He stood there for another moment before turning and walking out, whistling tonelessly. John's eyes were about as they had been the whole time. The guy took the door handle and drew it closed with a loud slam. There was a crinkling jingle as he locked it.

John brought his head up, slowly taking in his surroundings. His eyes unabashedly went wide, ashamed. He had nothing to feel ashamed about, but he felt distinctly tainted. Afraid. He wanted desperately to paw at his face, try and get rid of the feeling of having been... He had to get out of this place. Why'd they bring him here, anyway? Had he rambled a bit? Had he tried to assault a police officer, while screaming about the machines? Was his family dead? Who the fuck was this girlfriend of his?

The room was boring, utilitarian. A toilet. Sink. Neutral, featureless white walls. There was a camera in the corner, but it was broken. A tiny lightbulb seemed to float above his head, making a slight buzzing noise. It emitted a soft light. It was easy to see why people only went crazier in these sorts of places than they already were. He was breathing pretty rapidly now that the guy was gone, just about on the verge of hyperventilating. He wanted to yell out for help, to panic and find a voice of reason that could help him out. Oh...god, why was he here? Couldn't panic, though. The people here didn't like him.

That thing in his hand! He let out a sigh and slowly felt at it. It was tiny...wire-frame. Very warm within his grip. He pushed it up to his thumb and index finger, and then pushed his hand up as far as he could manage past the restraints. He squinted. It...it was a paper clip. Without thinking he quickly bent the paper clip until it was straight and stabbed it into the buckle of the restraint. He started probing with it until he felt a slight give in the locking mechanism and pushed. The restraint loosened easily and he raised his right arm up, gasping in relief as it came free. He took a moment to shake his arm and restore feeling to it.

Then he rubbed forcefully at his cheek, letting out a low, angered snarl as he did so. The leather straps that were preventing him from getting up could make a nice whip, or something to that effect. If he saw that fat bastard outside, the dude was gonna get it. John unlocked the other strap and dragged his upper body up, feeling a few pops in his bones as he did so. He was stiff as hell. He folded his body back a bit, then forward, side to side, working out all the kinks. The room was totally silent as he unlocked the other leg straps. He got up, repeated the same things for his legs to restore feeling, and finally hopped off the stretcher.

First he checked himself in all places, feeling every part of his body. He paid particular attention to the mark on his right forearm, where they syringed him. Brought it up to his eyes and stared. Just a tiny red pin-prick, really...it didn't look infected. He walked over to the nearby door and jiggled the handle rather needlessly, knowing it to be locked. He stood there for a moment with his hand wrapped round the handle, eyes shutting tight. He took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. He had to get outta here. How'd he even end up here, really? It was all screwed up. He drew his left hand up to his face and wiped some sweat off his forehead. Then he inserted the paperclip into door handle and worked at the lock until it was broken. He experimentally pushed down the handle and dragged the door back. It was pretty heavy. He shut it again as gingerly as he could.

_"If you can't get a weapon, run. If you can get a weapon, do it and _then_ run." _He knew what was expected of him. Even if he was disoriented, it was no excuse for him to forget his training.John stepped away from the door and went back over to the stretcher. He made sure to step down heels first to avoid making too much noise, even if he was barefoot. He tugged at the leather straps, testing the give. There was enough resistance to make it impossible to just rip them off. He got down on his knees and started checking the side surface of the stretcher. Sure enough, there was a place where the restraints locked into the side, but there was no place where you could unlock it and pull the thing out.

Damnit. He turned around and went back over to the door. There was a little plexiglas window at about his height on the door. Peering out, he saw nothing but darkness. He cracked the door open just a tad. Someone was whistling a few yards away, striding down the hall with loud, slamming steps. As soon as he heard this he quickly shut the door and froze for a moment, considering his options. He wanted to get out, right now, but he had no idea about what to do once he got out of this damned cell. He didn't even know how this place was built.

The only option he had other than flight was to stay right here. And that shit was not gonna fly, no sir. He peered outside again.

A beam of light was being illuminated from somewhere down the hall. John could barely hear the footsteps. If they belonged to that guy, and John overpowered him... There was a slight stabbing sensation in his head, very subtle. Best not to think about that. But whatever happened would happen.

John started jiggling the door handle while banging on the window. His hand bounced easily off the plexiglas, but it created enough racket to be useful. There was a noticeable change of pace to the footsteps outside, and the strobe of light went from fairly static to jerking and bouncing through the darkness as the guard outside rushed to see what was happening. John backed away slightly from the door. The fleshy, mean-spirited face of the attendant from before appeared at the window. He looked understandably surprised in seeing John unrestrained. They stared at each other for a few seconds, John keeping his face perfectly impassive. It was an effort, because he knew violence would be coming soon, and he could barely control himself whenever that happened. The man's eyes trailed down for a second, searchingly. After a moment, he turned his eyes back up to John.

John could suddenly hear his voice, quite clearly, although there was a bit of static, "How the hell did you get up?" The man looked like he was ready to pound John, but figured he should at least find out how John had gotten this way to begin with.

John ignored the question, saying, "I liked what you did." He made his voice go somewhat detached, euphoric, as if he wasn't entirely there.

The mans eyes raised a bit in surprise, but he was no fool. He responded by way of his middle finger. He tapped it against the plexiglas for a few seconds before saying, "I'm no faggot, and you aren't neither, Johnny boy. But hey, I know some people who'd be willing to uh...accommodate you, heh. Maybe, once they're done with you, you won't bother trying to get outta your restraints no more?"

John walked back over to the door and pressed his face against the window, putting him only a few inches away from the attendant. The mans eyes narrowed considerably. John smiled at him and brought up his right hand. He made a "come hither" gesture with his index and middle fingers.

"Yeah, you'll get it," He brought up the prod and tapped it against the window twice. Smiled. He looked like a man ready to enjoy himself. John let himself frown, let his eyes go wide with terror, as if he hadn't expected a reaction like this. John heard a slight click as the man inserted a key into the door.

John grabbed the door handle and forced the whole thing inward with as much force as he could muster. The attendant let out a shrill yell of terror as he was dragged forward a few feet, his hands wrapping reflexively around the key ring he was holding. The riot prod descended from his grasp and John ignored the guy temporarily, swinging himself around him. He scooped up the riot prod and quickly slammed it into the attendants back. He howled and fell face first into the cell. He kicked his legs back up, attempting to struggle. John stepped to the side and knelt forward. He began to bash the attendant with the prod, aiming mostly at the back of the head, occasionally swinging around to his temple, in which he literally _felt_ the bones in his skull giving way, breaking. The attendant shrieked in pain for the first few hits and went deathly silent as John bashed him the sixth time, directly in the temple. He became limp after about the eighth time. John delivered another hit before realizing this, and he stopped suddenly. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing now, harsh and loud. He stared. No movement whatsoever from the attendant. His chest wasn't moving up and down; wasn't breathing either. John stood up. He stared down at the head of the prod, which was barn red. Blood drizzled off the side. He looked back down at the attendant with an odd sort of fascination, cocking his head.

The guy was probably dead. John was appalled at how little he cared. He stood there over the attendants immaculately dressed corpse, waiting to hear anything from down the hall. There was only silence, interspersed with the tiny smacks on the tiled floor as blood dripped down from the side of the attendants head. John bent over and placed the prod on the floor, and then he dragged the corpse by the arms into the far corner of the cell. He didn't turn it over. The guy would probably be staring. Blank. Dead.

Shouldn't have done that. John blinked once and backed away after he laid him out. Should have held him at...like a hostage...or maybe just knocked him out? Why'd he have to kill him? He felt really frightened all of a sudden. Derek would have approved of what he did. No witnesses...can't be too careful. Yeah. What about mom, though? What would she-

"What about me?"

John's ascending foot seemed to lock up in mid-air and he slipped. He hit the floor hard, back of his head. Blood started to spread away from the point of impact and he laid there for a moment in dull shock before tilting his head up a bit, eyes wide and staring. Sarah Connor, John's mother, was kneeling in front of him. If it had been anyone else, John would have instantly scrambled away, for he hadn't even heard his mother enter the room.

Stared for a few seconds, his breath getting shorter. His mom was wearing a version of the clothes he had on. Her hair, very ragged and barely cared for, was much shorter than it was supposed to be. Her eyes had a certain...wildness to them. Face was sweaty, grimy. As he stared, she conspicuously turned her head away from him and checked the door, which was closed now. She turned back and cocked an eyebrow at him.

"John?" she said.

He didn't respond. He tilted his head away from her and groaned softly in pain, bringing his hand up to touch the back of his head. It was warm and kind of sticky. Hurt too. Sarah stood up and walked a semi-circle round him, staring at him the whole way. As soon as she reached his feet, she said, "Get up."

"How'd you get here?"

"I said get up."

John got up, albeit painfully. As soon as he was standing he shook out his legs a bit and cracked his neck. He craned his head back toward Sarah, frowning. "Mom-"

Sarah grabbed his hand without a word and started rushing toward the door. John resisted for barely a second before allowing himself to be dragged. He was getting out, that was all that mattered. Sarah scooped up the prod he'd dropped and held it to her back, concealing it. Opened the door. They were out into the hallway. John shook his hand loose from her grip and motioned that he'd follow her. She growled in response and snatched his hand back, resuming her prancing sprint. John shrugged and simply ran with her. Touching her hand was almost like gripping sandpaper. What the hell was going on here? Whatever, it didn't matter. He should just follow her. Trust in her to get him out of here.

It occurred to John, very much as an after-thought, that this was Pescadero State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Sarah didn't look as she had when he last saw her. This was getting weird. They rounded a corner together and started through a hall with a big, rectangular plane of windows lining the walls. Just beyond those windows were steel bars. John heard nothing but the sound of their flight through the hospital. Nothing else.

"Mom?"

She stopped. Gave him a look. "Explanations can wait later, John. We have to escape. Get to the border, resume your training."

"Oh," was all John said. He should have probably said something like, "But we've been doing that for years" or point out the fact that he'd essentially taken over his own physical training and remind Sarah that she'd taken on more of a mentor-esque role now. But her words made a strange degree of sense. How could that be when she was fundamentally wrong? Was it possible that she'd snapped? And, furthermore, had _he_ snapped? Maybe. On the went, anyway.

They reached a security gate. Beyond it was a check-point which probably marked the entrance into the cell blocks. John didn't remember this part. He remembered the elevators. That was how they'd escaped originally. Of course, they were without a T-1000 and a Terminator protecting them, but John didn't think that warranted a whole different method of escape. Or did it? He should probably mention it to his mom, who was busily withdrawing a set of keys he hadn't seen her pick up and inserting one into the gate lock. She turned it and pushed the thing open. Grabbed John's hand again.

"Who's my girlfriend, mom?"

Sarah scoffed, "You should know that, John."

But John shook his head, even though Sarah wasn't looking. No, he didn't know. "No, I don't know." They were about to round the next corner and sprint off into what John assumed to be freedom. Why hadn't they seen any other guards?

Sarah suddenly let go of John's hand and dived away as they rounded the corner. Without her guiding, uncompromising grip to shepherd him, John froze. A man with a gun stood in the hallway. He was wearing a police uniform, and looked generally like the T-1000. John stared at him, tensing up to run, but he found that he couldn't even more. Even if he tried, he felt paralyzed. Sarah was yelling at him. He'd planned everything, taken control from the start, even if he'd killed the attendant dude without much reason. Planned to escape. And when his mother materialized, he just stopped and followed her without question. His sense of control just vanished. He wondered what was happening, obviously, but he just...how had-

The gun, a Beretta 92, fired off once and a nine millimeter bullet penetrated John's chest. Blood sprayed out, both from the wound and from his mouth as he suddenly began to cough. He felt it dribble down his chin. His mother, a gun suddenly within her hands, peeked out from around the corner and fired twice. The T-1000 jerked twice as the bullets hit him and he fell backward like a cardboard cutout. Actually, on further inspection, John realized that he _was_ a cardboard cutout. But cardboard couldn't...-

John let out a moan of pain and he fell backward for the second time in five minutes, except now he was going to die. Pain swirling into him, and yet it was oddly distant. He heard his mother reloading. Blood trailed from his mouth as he attempted to cry out for help, and all he succeeded in doing was spitting the stuff out. He felt...like he was waiting for something. The pain _was_ sort of distant, yeah. He couldn't even pin-point it.

Sarah kneeled in front of him.

"Your girlfriend is the savior of mankind, John."

John shook his head reflexively. Nah, that was wrong. He was the savior of mankind. Everyone knew that. She didn't have her facts straight.

"She wouldn't just follow me without question, for example. And neither should you."

That was a goddamned lie. He didn't follow her without question. He criticized her all the time. That wasn't the _point_ here. There was something else! But _why_ was there a point here? He was dying. There shouldn't be a _point._ He was dying! Shot! Sarah should have been crying, or something. Not yelling at him... John coughed again. Sarah sighed and spoke, her voice becoming markedly different, going from wild and harried to soft, intense. But understanding. His mom in Pescadero, angrily carving "No fate" into a picnic table to his mom asking if he met any cute girls at school.

"I know...that this is tough for you to understand, but please, try." John nodded his head, desperately wanting her to go on. "I love you. I'd die for you, John, you know that. And I...we...need the same in response. It's not all about you. A of terrible stuff has happened, I know...but-"

Oh christ, not a guilt trip. Gonna tell him to pull himself up. He _wanted _to. But all of this stuff...he was a kid, for chrissake. The things that made him a child, a growing child, conflicted with the ideas in his head as to his destiny, their mission. He was built in a certain way, and dealing with school fights, women (synthetic women), finding out terrible things about his upcoming life. It just clashed so horrifically that he felt like he had to select one over the other, or go _nuts..._

"I can't," he said, even though he was coughing up blood and could barely get in a breath. "It's too much."

Sarah frowned at him, "'Some people never give up. Some people always fight.', John. You said that. You're so much stronger than this. You can't let this bring you down to the point of no return."

How the _fuck_ did she know about that? John laid his head back, shutting his eyes. God, what would she know, anyway?

Sarah got up. "Talk to me later, John. Please."

She walked off as John coughed again. He saw a bright light.

"Ok."

--

He felt a lot of pain as he woke up. Dull. A little hot, like the aftermath of a terrible burn. It was...on his torso, he guessed. Felt as if he...just dropped his chest on a burning stove element and quickly withdrew. That sort of thing could hurt for hours. It was pretty unbearable. You wanna pour water all over the place you burned...but it didn't do anything. Was useless. John began to twist a bit, and placed a hand on his chest. It was bare, he could feel his skin. No shirt. He pulled the hand away slowly and moaned in sudden, terrible pain as he felt the place where he'd touched start to burn. Or like burning, anyway, cause he wasn't on fire, after all. His teeth clenched and he bounced up from where he was for a moment before collapsing back to where he'd been laying. He felt really tired, a combination of the pain and...just having slept, he guessed. Was it sleep or unconsciousness, though?

God, he'd dreamt again. Remembered all of it, too. He was in too much pain to think about it, though. What it meant.

He moved all of his limbs experimentally. His left leg quickly resisted, and John couldn't move it more than a few inches (gingerly) without feeling a sudden scream of pain. A sort of feeling like dipping your hand into a jar of exposed razors...kinda. Anyway, he stopped. Probably sprained. His right leg and left arm felt fine, but his right arm...it just hurt. Like hell. He could move it just fine, but there was a huge stabbing, tearing sensation in his forearm. Other than that, he was OK. He just felt completely beat. The day had been really hard on him so far, so he wasn't surprised by this...this...

OH god. The grenades! Cameron, his mom, Derek- WHERE?

He started thrashing around, needing to get up. Christ, he was alive, fucking alive! He survived! He...where was everyone else? God, was he the only one left? His eyes flashed open and took in the room he was in.

He was...somewhere. He smelt something burning. He was in...god, he was somewhere. He didn't recognize it at all, but he heard sirens and smelt something burning so it had to be close to the hotel, if not inside the hotel. The room he was in was small, ill-lit. Concrete construction, different from the rest of the hotel. A mop hung limply in the corner. Janitor's closet. Ok, fine. He didn't know what level he was on, but it had to be within the hotel. He could get out...He scrambled up to the door, which was wooden, and pressed his head against it. He didn't want try standing. That would probably be bad. He tried to ignore the burning sensation that was running across his chest, but it was difficult. A sort of permanent cringe was beginning to dominate his face, and it was difficult to keep his eyes open.

He heard the dull crackle of flames in the distance, snapping of wood. The ringing of fire alarms. And police sirens. There was another noise, too...Guitar? Not being played nearby, per se. It was close, but it lacked echo, distance, that sort of thing. Like...it was being played out of an iPod...

It was "This Charming Man." John froze for a moment, just listening in dull shock as Morrissey described the title character who would eventually seduce the protagonist of the song. Then, using his left hand, John investigated his pockets. That little check did nothing, however, for they were empty. His clips of ammo were gone, and so was the iPod. The music was coming from nearby, but not within this closet. That could mean anything. He heard footsteps from above, loud and unabashed. They quickly died away. The hotel was likely in chaos. A lot of ammunition had been used in the last half hour, after all.

"Hello?" John said, raising his voice. As he said this, he absently cringed when he realized the danger in announcing himself, but he figured that if whoever had brought him here hadn't simply killed him when they found him, they weren't likely to now either.

A sound of someone moving away from the door. He heard something rub briefly against it and rise up. John backed up as best as he could, trying to make himself as small a concern to whoever was out there as possible. He couldn't do much other than crawl, though. His leg felt really screwed up. The door opened inward.

Mike Oxferod stood silhouetted in the door way, looking in at him. He looked much as he had when John had last saw him, but simply being _reminded_ of his presence here threatened to throw John back into the neurosis that struck him when faced with his sudden appearance in the first place. Why the hell was this kid, this kid that John had a stupid spate over Cheri Westin, here? Holding a gun, no less? And _running_ at the very sight of a T-800- Ohhhh _god._ That was a mental pummeling, goddamnit. Now _that_ had been the kicker for John. Just made him snap like a wet twig, seeing...that thing. Looked just like the Terminator he'd encountered when he was ten years old. The thing he'd taught to say, "Hasta la vista, baby."

He pulled himself back abruptly. Couldn't reminisce, not right now. He looked up at Michael and they sort of shared a look for a while before Mike bent forward. He was holding John's Beretta in his right hand, and his iPod in the left. The music was very loud from this range. Without a word, he held out both hands. John stared at them for a moment, and then back up at Michael. Mike merely nodded. Sighing, John snatched the pistol and stuffed it the back of his jeans. He took the iPod and turned down the volume.

John barely looked at Mike as he pocketed it, "Thanks," he said absently. He exhaled sharply and looked over at the mop, turning his head almost completely away from the other teenager.

"Uh huh," Mike said, just as absently. John continued to stare at the mop, which was blue-grey and had one of those modern wash-things at the bottom. The mop got boring pretty fast, but he struggled anyway to find something interesting about it. Anything. He supposed that he should ask Michael about what, exactly, it was that he was doing here, with a gun no less. Then again, Mike could easily turn that question around. So he said nothing. He felt vaguely embarrassed, actually, sitting there with no shirt on and all. He suspected that the thing had probably burned off, and that was why it hurt so bad. Mike didn't seem to care that much. Maybe. Man, he was in the fucking _principals_ office with this guy only yesterday.

Michael shifted on his feet, clicking his heels together. "What song was that?"

John looked at him, thinking that, for a moment, he must not have heard correctly. He stared at Michael through the curtain that was his hair for a few seconds. Mike looked back at him, eyes slightly elevated, expecting. Wow.

"Uh, it's The Smiths," John said, fumbling with the iPod in his pocket for a second, as if he intended to take it out, which he knew he wouldn't.

"Never heard of them." That was unsurprising. John had started liking them in 1997, when they were still relatively fresh in everyones mind. Relatively. He didn't know if they were...

John blinked and said, "Uh, yeah-"

"What's 'The Smiths' about?" Michael asked. He was still crouching in front of him, and now he was staring pretty intently at John. Pretty curious guy.

John shook his head, laughing in spite of himself, "Nah, that's the band name. The song's called 'This Charming Man'." He felt really awkward doing all this, laying there explaining shit to him while his chest felt like it had just escaped from an oven. He said, "Did you, uh, understand any of the lyrics?"

"A bit. It's about a bicycle. A broken one. And a car. There's a guy inside of it. He's probably rich."

John nodded, "Basically. Dude in the song gets stranded and a motorist picks him up. He's gay, I guess --the motorist--, and he seduces the first guy."

Michael didn't react to this. He seemed distinctly uninterested, actually, even if he had asked in the first place. Probably just wanted to break the ice somehow. Or say something to fill the school-fight-sized void between them.

"That's cool."

"What are you doing here, Mike?" John said abruptly, not interested in beating around the bush anymore.

Mike looked at him and gestured to his right forearm. John peered at it and noticed a big...long...

"Aaha..." John gawked at the exposed wound, which looked nearly pink and had dried blood all around it, suddenly feeling the pain from it in full force. Hurt like a bitch, to be perfectly honest, but it was manageable. His reaction came mostly from realizing its very existence. It would need stitches. That prospect never filled him with glee; the last time he'd gotten stitches he'd been around nine, living with a set of foster parents. He'd fallen out of a tree and hit a branch going down, leaving a long gash in his arm. If he'd been living with Sarah, she'd have given him a field dressing and told him not to be so stupid. And he'd take it like a man. Without Sarah he became a delinquent...and soft. He'd screamed.

"Shrapnel," Michael said. "I pulled it out of you. Also got your shirt off before it set the _rest_ of your clothes on fire."

"So what, am I supposed to be grateful?"

"No," Michael said quietly, shaking his head. "I didn't do it out of kindness."

John glared at him, but appreciated the honesty. He didn't like this guy either, after all. But if he didn't do it out of kindness...then why at all? John asked as much.

Michael didn't respond, not at first. Instead, he scooted closer and whirled his finger around, indicating that should should turn around. John tilted his head, a doubtful expression on his face. "Try and get up?" Mike asked.

John pushed himself up as much as he could. His left leg remained outstretched as he curved his right against his crotch and stared at Michael. Keeping his head turned toward the other teenager, John curved his back a bit toward him, assuming that was what he wanted. It was. Mike scooted over again and hovered over John for a brief moment, staring at his back. He seemed to find what he was looking for and, without a word, traced his index finger against John's back. John instantly winced in pain and shook him away, confused beyond words now. He stared at Mike.

Michael looked nearly overwhelmed. He blinked twice and backed away, turning his head downward.

"I..." he stopped suddenly and inhaled a bit, rubbing a hand against his forehead. Exhaled. "I was four years old. My parents...they surrendered. So did I, I guess. They rounded us up, and then killed us by odd numbered selection. Mom and dad, they died. I was between em'..."

John was shaking his head, his mouth trailing open in shock. No...

"They brought the rest of us to Century. I remember seeing you there. We were...they forced us to...take off our clothes. I was behind you." His hand started to trace a line in the air, and he wasn't looking at John. His eyes were shut tight. "You had a scar. _That_ scar. That's how...that's how I knew it was you. I was just draggin' you when I noticed it and I thought...'Nah, couldn't be him.' But then I..."

John's face was burning. He closed his eyes, and just listened...listened. It was all he could do.

"Same kind of hair. Same eyes. Same build, just about..." he laughed suddenly, his mouth breaking into a wide, nervous smile. "I could barely believe it myself, but here you're...you're not John Baum. You're Connor."

John didn't respond. Michael didn't appear to be expecting _any_ response though. They were silent for about a minute before John fully collected himself, which was difficult as hell, and said, "Help me up."

Michael stooped over him and pulled John up from the floor. He placed John's left arm over his neck and put his right arm round John's upper back. He looked at him for confirmation, and John nodded. Being held like this was pretty painful, but it was necessary for him to get outta there. They went through the door, slowly. The hallway was pretty normal looking. No smoke. Fires could still be heard. The police sirens were incredibly close now, just about outside the hotel.

Michael said, "I don't know why I bothered checking you to begin with. I guess it was fate. I thought you were dead, but there I was anyway."

John had a lot of questions for Mike. A shame he had no time to ask any of them. "Where's...uh..."

Michael looked at him, "I ignored it. I knew it was a fucking Terminator when it stalked over to help you yesterday."

John felt like stepping on his foot. That wouldn't get much accomplished, of course, but it would feel damned nice. "Tell me what happened."

Michael explained that the T-800 never got back up. The elevator that had been coming down had fallen the last two stories. Cameron, who'd been making a sort of high-pitched, metallic squeal, eventually went silent as Michael dragged John away from the second floor, which they were still on.

John took this in carefully, methodically. A bit tearfully, to be honest. Dread, icy and terrible, creeped up his back. The elevator had crashed. That was the freight noise he'd heard. Cameron was probably alright...but...People didn't fucking survive elevator crashes. They fucking _died._ His family had been in there. And...he fucking caused it. The grenades. Man, he had no other choice, though! It wasn't... He couldn't face this yet. He needed to see it, couldn't jump to any conclusions.

"Take me there," John said in a low, distant voice. Michael cocked an eyebrow.

"We have to get you out of here, John," he said. For added emphasis, he threw a look towards their left, which was where the outside of the building was. Where the cops were.

John shook his head, whipping it to and back. "No. Not yet."

They went around two corners, Michael with his left hand, clutching the Browning, outstretched and tensed up, waiting to see a cop or a mafioso. Anything. No one confronted them. The elevator hall was completely totaled; flames had torn away most of the right-side wall, and smoke filled the area, making visibility poor and breathing difficult. As soon as John's body touched the air here his exposed torso started to sting with pain. Fire alarms rang continuously. Most of the flames had died off, but John could still see, further down, an orange, hazy glow near the elevator shafts.

The elevator John had been standing in front of was bent inward, looking like it had been blasted with the worlds biggest shotgun. No way to tell if what Michael told him was right. Then again, he couldn't have been lying, could he?

John took this in for a few seconds before motioning to Mike that they should keep going. But he shook his head, "No way. I'll check it out myself, but you stay here." And he started to pull John toward the nearby wall.

He refused to move, however, and tightened his grip around Mike's waist, "I'm not helpless, Mike."

Michael looked back, "Yeah, you demonstrated that to me yesterday, but this is different. Are you sure?"

"Fuckin' positive. Let's go, ok?"

Mike didn't respond. He simply sighed and started to push onward, helping John along. They started into the hall. John immediately winced in pain, but kept his mouth shut. As they went, he spotted a few blackened clumps of...something near the right-hand wall, which was gutted. The blackened clumps had some color to them, however; a sort of grey with white lines in it. His shirt. John shook his head as they kept going, not seeing his hoodie jacket. Damn.

Cameron Phillips lay prostrate several feet away, her body partially obscured by smoke. Michael helped John crouch next to her, and he gave the Terminator a brief once-over as Mike sweeped the hall with his pistol. From the front, Cameron looked pretty well-off, save for a few places where shrapnel from the grenades had pierced her. Bloodied stains were all over her torso, where the smaller fragments had gone in. A small river of blood trickled from a tiny hole in her forehead. Other than that, her face was positively serene, which made it a really hard contrast with the blood and all. Her lips were slightly parted...eyes were open. There wasn't a hint of distress on her face, if that was even possible. It was like staring at a person who has died peacefully, and that sort of thought hurt. Made him consider all sorts of shit.

Well, not for much longer, he wouldn't. If her chip was fine, _she_ was fine. That was a weird sort of thought, now wasn't it? Was Cameron the chip, or was Cameron the body, the human flesh, the metal alloy underneath? Was everything surrounding that chip just a platform? A host? John pulled some of the larger pieces of shrapnel out of her with a bit of effort. There was a distinct sucking sound as he pulled one out, which sent a chill down his spine as he involuntarily thought of his own wound, which was similar to hers. As he finally pulled it free, he couldn't help noticing the glint of chrome at the base of the wound, where flesh simply ceased to be and instead there was...just metal.

He was really starting to worry about her, so he turned her head up in his hands, searching through the hair, skin, for a wound that could have disrupted her chip. He knew about...roughly where the protected slot ought to be, but he saw nothing around there. Maybe the wound in her head had made a clean penetration...just cut right through the chip?

"What do you think?" John asked Michael, his voice a little husky.

He didn't see the other kids reaction. "What is it, a T-850? Kinda small."

John's shoulders slumped a bit, and he turned back to Mike, exasperated. Was he not getting the point here? "Do you think her chip's...?"

Michael crouched down with him and looked over Cameron silently. As he did this, he said, "What's this 'her' all about?"

John looked at him, and then down to Cameron. Sighed. Michael shook his head in return and said, "Turn it over."

It? _It?_ She...was a robot, yeah. Did that qualify an "it?"... John blinked and turned Cameron over, exposing her back. It wasn't much more than ripped up meat, John noted to his revulsion, and he could see a lot of Cameron's actual back. Tiny metal rods and flat pieces of chrome decorated her back side. John couldn't identify any pattern, method to what he saw. It was just metal to him. It was a simple reminder of a simple fact that he rarely liked to think about.

In her spine there was a sliver of fragmentation, almost as long as John's index finger, but much slimmer. There were a few other pieces of shrapnel in her, but this one stood out. John grabbed it and winced; it was pretty damned sharp, and blood sprinkled from his hand. Goddamn, if they didn't end up paying a visit to Charley Dixon, he'd eat his hat. Grimacing tightly, he yanked the fragment out of Cameron's back.

Cameron's upper torso immediately jerked upward, and a high-pitched squeal emanated from her mouth, loud enough so that it was just...piercing, stabbing in your head. John let out a yell and clapped a hand around his ears as Michael did the same. Cameron's face went into a ghastly convulsion of emotions and expressions, looking at once angered while grinning, aroused while grimacing...It was fucked up, insane looking. Her eyes glowed twice, once blue, once the standard Terminator red. That last...John gasped and fell back on his ass, looking terrified.

As soon as her eyes glowed red, both of her arms dragged themselves up and launched toward John's throat. Her expression went grim and emotionless as she fixed those suddenly red eyes upon him. When they stopped glowing as suddenly as they'd started, her outstretched hands froze about a foot from his Adam's apple. The metallic screeching halted. Cameron titled her head and blinked, her eyes trailing to look at her arms. Then she lowered them and looked up and down at John, face completely expressionless. John's lower mouth was trembling, but he managed to scoot forward a bit in spite of that surge of terror he felt. Michael had stepped back for a moment in surprise and hadn't quite reacted to the near-kill thing...if that had been what she'd intended. And it couldn't have been. Right?

"Are you ok?" he said, his voice heavy with fear. For himself and for her, he supposed.

"Yes," she replied. She looked up at Mike, then back to John again. Within a moment, she did a double-take on the other teenager, cocking her head in confusion. John cracked a smile at that. "Where's the T-800?"

Mike nodded his head toward the source of the flames, "Dead, I'm guessing." He turned back and glared at her.

Cameron stared at him again, slower this time, before returning back to John. They were still just sitting around. And John wasn't sure if his family was dead. There was another piece of shit he had to worry over, goddamnit. Sometimes he just...damnit...

"You need medical attention," Cameron said. John merely nodded; there was no use in arguing. "And we need to escape. Right now. Where's Sarah?"

"I don't know," John said, sighing. "I...the elevator fell in. They were...-" He noticed that no one was paying attention to him, all of a sudden. Cameron and Michael were staring down the corridor at something. John turned as well, suddenly fearing that the T-800 had arrived again.

But it wasn't the Model 101, rising from the flames like a demon out of Hell. It was...well, John couldn't see it, so he didn't know what was so interesting. He looked back toward Cameron, a quizzical expression on his face, and found that she had stood up. He was alone on the floor. Nice of them.

"What the hell?" he said.

Michael stalked off into the smoke for a moment, his form essentially disappearing. John could see smudges of white. He was really confused.

"Cam-"

"It's your cellphone," she explained.

"Oh." Well, was that so hard...Oh! "Is it ringing?!"

"Yes."

John felt like pumping his hand in the air. Alive! Christ, they were alive, thank god! Well, one of them...Oh god. His face, almost comically, darkened at once with that thought. Cameron stooped down and helped John up, immediately pivoting herself and positioning her arms and hands where they'd make him the most comfortable and lessen the pain. With a regular girl it would have been uncomfortable. Cameron wasn't bound by such things, of course. She gave him a look to see if this was ok. He nodded. It was. Man, a lot of stuff had gone on today. There'd be plenty to talk about. And the funny thing was, John didn't even know the half of it.

God, was he tired.

Michael walked back over, John's hoodie jacket in hand. With a side-long smirk, he handed it back to John. The thing was way too hot to wear, but that wasn't exactly paramount in his mind right then. He plucked the ringing cellphone out of the jacket pocket and held it up to his ear.

"Mom?"

"Where are you?" Sarah Connor said without greeting him in return, her voice stoney and intense. That was fine, though, he was...oh christ, he was tearing up. He really thought they'd been dead. He sniffled absently and said, haltingly, "W-we're on the second floor. Are you ok?"

"It was a little bumpy, but these elevators have plush walls. Amazing thing." In the background, Derek Reese yelled "hi."

John laughed at that, near hysterically. God, he was happy.

"We, uh, gotta get outta here," John said.

"You're alright?" Sarah asked, her voice going soft, concerned. Motherly. John gasped for a breath, feeling at once very overwhelmed. So much shit had gone wrong here, but christ, everyone was ok. They'd lived. "Everything's ok?"

"I'm a bit banged up," John said. No use in lying, "But I can walk and, uh...Cameron's fine too." He looked at Michael, but didn't say anything about him. "We're gonna go with the original plan and find a fire escape, alright?"

"Avoid the police, for the love of all that's holy. We have a LOT to talk about when we meet up. Remember the church."

John nodded to no one in particular, "I love you."

"I know," and then there was a click. John dropped the cellphone in his pocket and nodded briskly at both Michael and Cameron. Cameron was already gingerly leading them away the hallway and probably toward a fire-escape. She'd listened to every word of the conversation, after all. "We're leaving," John said, and started moving. Cameron promptly picked up the pace. Michael followed without a sound, staring down at the floor.

John stared back at him. There was a lot to say, obviously, and he really wanted to talk to either him or Cameron about so much. Just talk softly with Cameron, whispering to each other...understanding...

Whoa. Fantasize much? Man, he felt out of it. He really should talk to Mike, though. So he did, "Mike?"

Michael Oxferod looked up at him and took the hint; "I was looking for you."

Cameron turned her head toward John meaningfully. He ignored her, even if he felt, probably, what she suspected. Mike continued, "I'm not gonna bother lying to you. I was following you guys since yesterday, after I zeroed your pet Terminator here." He gestured toward Cameron. John glared at him, not liking how much Michael sounded like Derek at this moment.

"You couldn't have known for sure," John said.

Michael glared at him in return, "All due respect --and this is fucking weird if you don't mind my saying so-- John, but I grew up with these things. 'She' is not as good as you may think."

John couldn't help but ask this; "When are you from?"

"2025. I'm not getting into the details right now, because this has been..." he shook his head, wonderingly, "I never expected to see you. I idolized you, you know that? You were a..." He sighed, "People round here, in this time. They believe in God, that sort of thing, whatever. Where I come from...they believe in you."

Cameron ran her hand smoothly across his belly for a second, as if in reaction to this. John squeezed her hand, also in response. He didn't know what the fuck to say about something like that.

Michael sighed, "And I see you...and I ask 'hey, what song is that?' and you just...answer. Like a person."

They rounded the hall way corner, and Cameron started directing them toward a window. Someone was speaking on a megaphone outside. John stared back at Mike, "Sorry." That was stupid. What was he apologizing for?

And Michael simply nodded, looking away suddenly. "I'll get over it," he said. And to be frank, he truly did look pained, as if his understanding of the world had been shattered, changed. In a way, it had. He looked back toward John and his eyes just ran across him, as if seeing him for the first time. He sighed, "We have to talk again."

"Yeah."

Cameron punched out the window and ran her hand up and down the sill, tossing away stray pieces of glass. She looked out and scanned for a moment. Then she turned and said, "Come on." She helped John out and onto the fire escape. The cold air instantly soothed most, if not all of the pain he'd felt within the smoke-filled second floor of the hotel. He sighed and stared upward. Sun shined on, like a good trooper. Cool. Getting down from the fire escape wouldn't be fun for him, but he'd manage.

Cameron hoisted herself out as well and turned back to Michael. They stared at each other for a moment, as if not quite sure of what to make of the other. John looked down and saw an alley beneath them, which had been filled with two industrial-sized dumpsters. A little to the south and he saw the back-end of a LAPD patrol cruiser squatting in the street.

Cameron turned and started to work on lowering the wire-frame stair well down to the first-floor fire escape. John, leaning himself against the nearby rail, looked in at Michael, himself looking down the corridor, as if he'd seen something.

"Yo, Mike?"

Michael turned to him, eyes harried, "What?"

"Cheri, is she...?"

Michael grinned, "Nah. But somehow I doubt she'd like you."

John immediately brightened at that, even in spite of what Mike said to supplement the denial that he was romantically involved with her. That threw up all sorts of interesting questions, actually. He shook his head and said, "Why are you-"

"That's classified, John," Michael said without hesitation, aiming his Browning down the corridor and firing off once. He looked up from the iron sights and grunted. He turned quickly back to John and said, "You said as much."

And he disappeared from view, running off down the corridor. John stared for a moment before turning to Cameron and saying, "C'mon. Time to leave. I think you'll need to carry me, cos' I'm gonna be unconscious in a few seconds."


	14. Without a Paddle

**Flight is Right**

Chapter Fourteen: ...Without a Paddle

Despite its residing in downtown Los Angeles, the church obviously hadn't enjoyed the services of a good maintenance crew in over a decade. It was about what you'd expected to see in an urban environment; rather small, tucked in between a few buildings with sparse floral decoration. Painted white. John Connor didn't know what denomination it belonged to; he and Cameron Phillips weren't coming in from the front. It probably looked better in front, though. Couldn't say the same for the back-side, of course, but the whole thing was generally a wreck. Parts of the spire were falling apart at the seams, the cross at the top was missing an arm. The side of it, apart from the peeled away paint and moldy appearance, had been covered in graffiti. Most of the wooden construction was pock-marked with holes, dents, scratches and other signs of dilapidation.

The back alleys surrounding the church were covered with debris of all sorts; broken cardboard boxes, remnants of trash bags, a lot of generic looking garbage that one would expect to find in a place like this. Weeds flourished here, unmolested by the efforts of groundskeepers, if any such people even existed for this building. The weeds were truly huge, anyway, whacking and tickling at your legs, snaking up through your jeans, touching the exposed bit of skin between the pant-leg and your shoe if you didn't pull your socks up. There were also a few dark, cavernous holes in the side of the building, and John could swear that he saw the green, twinkling eyes of a cat within them once or twice.

And speaking of which, the place seemed decidedly infested with the creatures. As they went along, several cats fled when alerted to their presence, dashing away before John could get a good look at them. He could hear them meowing a few yards off, suddenly involved in some sort of fight or play-time. He could also hear the squeaking of rats hiding amongst the urban decay, waiting patiently for their feline adversaries to slink off in search of easier prey. John couldn't see any of em', not that he was disappointed, of course.

Sirens howled in the distance as more of the LAPD detached themselves from lesser crimes and came to investigate the big shoot-out at the hotel. Although John couldn't pick any of them out from among the other sounds of traffic, he knew that news vans were also mobilizing. It was to be expected. This whole thing would be in the news for days. He wondered, absently, about how many people had been killed. He hoped his mom wasn't among them. Or Derek. Christ, that whole thing had been truly screwed up. He hoped it was resolved, but the appearance of the T-800 only suggested that there was far, far more to this than met the eye.

Cameron Phillips, still bloodied from her semi-sacrificial effort to protect John from exploding grenades, was clutching a tiny medical kit in her hands. John regarded it with something less than joyful enthusiasm, even though he knew that he couldn't let his wounds go untended. He was stripped from the waist up, his shirt having been set aflame in the course of taking out the T-800. That whole thing had left his torso feeling as if it'd been pressed against a burning oven element for a moment, and then taken off suddenly. That sort of pain was horrendous, and it sticked with you for hours. He just hoped it wasn't bad enough to warrant a hospital visit. His Beretta 92 stuck out from the lip of the back of his jeans, and his pockets were stuffed with an amalgam of things, ranging to nine millimeter clips, a flash-drive, and his cellphone and iPod.

The part of the back alley they were in, directly behind the church, boasted an old couch and a tree-stump, along with the usual fare of strewn-out debris. A cat was leisurely bathing itself on one of the couch arms. It peered at the two interlopers for a moment in idle fascination before returning to its business.

"You should sit down," Cameron said. She sent a look toward the cat. It stared back at her impassively, somewhat expectantly. A collar hung round its neck, which probably explained its reluctance to bound away at the first sight of humans. John looked at the couch, and then the tree-stump, essentially picking his poison. The couch had some rather obvious stains on it, some of which looked pretty recent and resulted in sending a teeny bit of blood away from his head and toward another, more specific area. Then again, in addition to those rather obvious stains were a few old, smelly beer stains and...other things, which swiftly rerouted said blood and put a rather unfortunate end to the fantasy that had entered his mind.

He walked forward and sat on the tree stump, absently wincing as a few chips of wood bit into his ass. He brushed them away and resettled. He looked at his right forearm and grimaced again, not liking the look of the shrapnel wound. Those things got infected very, very fast, and he preferred not to get it fixed in a decrepit back alley, of all places. Still, it was all they had, and they still had to wait for his family to get back. He looked at Cameron and raised his hands a bit, indicating that she should get started. He took a deep breath.

Cameron walked over to the couch and, much to the chagrin of the lounging cat, started to drag it toward the stump. Apparently she wasn't put off by the mess. John found himself staring at it again, wondering who would want to bang _here_ of all places. Cheap thrills? Well, on second thought, it did seem kind of...

Ehheh...no. Stop that. Stupid of him to lose focus like that. But it also seemed, oddly enough, kinda funny. Just kinda, though.

The cat remained rooted in place, challenging Cameron to move it. It yawned hugely and settled down as she finally got the couch in place right in front of the stump and sat down, absently brushing a plastic bag out of her way. She opened the first aid kit and took out a gauze sponge. John hissed slightly at the sight of it, as though in preparation for the pain it would inevitably cause him as it touched the wound.

Cameron smiled at him, "It'll be fine, John."

"Just...get on with it," he said, shaking his head slightly.

She went to work almost immediately after he said that, cleaning the wound as efficiently as possible. John gasped in pain and started to feverishly tap his hand on the surface of the stump, clenching his teeth. Why not lose it entirely, though? Why not grunt, scream, cry? Curse at her? She was a robot! He could express himself in front of her! Didn't suppression of those urges imply that he wished to make an impression on her?

"Uh, Cameron?" John said, making the words sound half query, half grunt.

"Yes?"

"Are you alright? Your systems, I mean. That-oooww..."

"I'm operating at eighty six percent capacity, well-within acceptable boundaries."

"What about the other fourteen percent?" he asked.

"Mostly related to neuro-spinal malfunction; movement related to the limbs can and likely will be slightly lagging in response time. The rest of the damage is primarily superficial. In laymans terms, I'm fine," she looked up and smiled at him, "Thanks for asking, though."

John smiled bashfully and turned away. He could feel himself blushing boyishly, and to be honest, he enjoyed that feeling. It was good to feel _human_ after all that had happened. He smiled and looked at her from underneath the curtain of his hair. Raising an eyebrow, he blew the bangs away and-

The moment was ruined by him cursing out loud as she withdrew the gauze sponge, leaving cold air to brush against the exposed wound. The feeling wasn't exactly what you'd call "ticklish." The cat looked over to John and meowed conspicuously.

"Gah...well, I just wanted to thank you. For saving me...again." He smirked. He half-expected her to respond with something like "Your gratitude is not required: I am a machine."

Instead, she merely looked up at him and smiled in return, "There's no one else I'd rather save the life of."

John giggled, completely taken aback by the simple casualness of her words, "Really?"

"Of course. It's my mission."

He nodded at that, smiling thoughtfully. This all felt...nice to him. A definite contrast from the terror of the hotel, all the shooting, doubt, the crap with Derek earlier...It felt really nice. He also felt, to be perfectly honest, more than a bit sensual at this point. Sitting there on the stump, Cameron right there. No shirt...the stupid little stains on the couch that simply caught his eye (by chance, of course)...it was a rather potent feeling, to say the least. He couldn't act on it, of course. And that was the crux all people experienced inevitably.

Cameron brandished a needle and started threading it. John stared at it for a moment, --absently thinking of an object of similar shape-- and said, "That's sterile, right?"

Cameron looked over and nodded. John breathed in sharply and closed his eyes. He counted stuff in his head, mentally recited the school work he was supposed to have had done by today, fantasized, all sorts of things to take his mind off the coming pain. He could take it. Control it. He'd have to. If his mother could do shit like this, so could he. No problem. He was no stranger to this, but pain, especially for a young person, was a ghastly specter at the best of times. He sighed, breathed in again. Those thoughts he was having before. Sex and all, yeah. That was a _great_ distraction, albeit not very subtle to people who were around him. Not that Cameron would care.

Cameron laid her left hand on his right shoulder and positioned her right near the wound. John thought it was weird not see her with her tongue sticking out or anything, like how a normal person would react to this sort of situation. She just analyzed, determined the best possible method of fixing this cut, and would execute flawlessly. He ought to be glad _she_ was doing this for him, not a regular person. The needle flashed above the cut. Cameron cocked her head a bit. He wondered if she knew how this felt.

_"Does it hurt when you get shot?"_ he'd asked. A few years ago.

And the Terminator had responded, _"My body senses injuries; the data would be called 'pain.'"_

Maybe she did know how it felt.

Cameron pierced the side of the wound with the needle, very quickly and efficiently, flawlessly. John gasped in pain and let out a hissing noise through his teeth. Ahhh _christ._

"Fuck, fuck..." he said almost inaudibly. Now comes the...the pull. She drew in the thread and pierced the other side, pulling the skin in together. John yelled. Perhaps it had been a mistake for his last thought to be a fixation on the meaning of pain in a Terminators mind. Definitely a mistake. He lowered his head, pressing his chin against the base of his neck. His eyes were blurring swiftly. He just had to hold out. It'd get better, more regular. The first part was always the hardest. Christ, he wished he had something to bite down on. Cameron continued to stab, pull, close, all of that. John just felt the nearly unbearable sensation of it all.

Fixate on something else, quick. Anything would do. Ah...the stains, yeah. God, he was a pervert sometimes, but it'd do. It was a pretty fucking sleazy thing to think about, honestly, but he really didn't care at this point. He felt primal right now, just had to escape from the pain. Who the hell would have sex out here, on that old thing that Cameron was sitting on, that the cat was staring at him intently from, orange eyes flashing? Maybe a priest, or something like that? This was behind a church, it was only a logical progression if...yeah. Maybe. But more likely not. Priests and guys like that were pretty uptight about shit like that. He supposed that gave them a pretty strong will. It occurred to John, suddenly, that perhaps a more religious person might be more adept at leading the forces of humanity against the evil robots. Then again, having pre-knowledge of said conflict, and the loss of life it entailed, probably wouldn't endear one to God for very long.

Anyway. Probably not a priest. Some guy with a girl, then? Some guy with a guy? He thought of "This Charming Man." That'd be a fucking sleazy thing to do, really, no matter who was involved. What if they were his age? Oh...

"I wasn't aware that pain responses included arousal," Cameron said dryly. Or maybe it wasn't dry. Sounded more like her regular tone, really. Either way, John stared at her and said, "Whatever, go...just..." It suddenly occurred to John that Cameron could probably feel base things such as heart acceleration, blood pressure, and shit like that merely by touching him. She'd demonstrated a peculiar affinity for how he felt in the past...and all of that after having brushed a hand against him, felt him, shit like that. Did he feel violated by that? Right now? Not really. She made up in other areas. He continued, in passing, to formulate the story behind the old, raggedy couch.

He let out a sigh again as she pulled more of the skin together, closing the wound up some more. He was shaking a bit, his hand tapping furiously now. He was turning his head this way and that, slowly, methodically. He stared at nothing in particular. The cat had gotten up and had tucked its legs into against its under-side. It was staring right at him, making no moves to pretend it was doing anything else but staring at him. What was it expecting? Was it just curious? Either way, John wasn't exactly regretting its company. It added a certain charm to the scene.

He laid his head back against the back-side of the church, trying not to let his body and arms slacken as well. Cameron wasn't perfect, and he certainly wasn't either. A mistake in the stitching here wouldn't be pleasant. He was breathing pretty regularly now, generally relegating the pain he felt to the back burner, putting more --or so he deemed-- important thoughts on his mind. Like the epic question, the hotly debated, much storied question: what led to those stains? He could think about a billion things right now, like how best to organize a frightened group of mall-goers into a well-coordinated squadron of soldiers. Or school stuff. Cheri, Morris, how stupid their class president was and how the only reason he'd been elected was because he was popular, not because he was smart. Or guns stuff. The optimum rate of fire on the Beretta 92 and how best to achieve it. Tons of stuff.

But thinking about sex and trashy shit was simply easier. Was it a personal telling of his character, that he was a creep and not at all future-leader-of-mankind material? Not really. It had more to do with the fact that he was a teenager. Of course he wasn't considering any of this at the time.

The whole thing had a rather morbid fascination, as all mysteries do. Who banged here? Who masturbated here? No one would know except the individuals involved. No one _could_ know. It was a mystery. That sort of thing carried...not value, but simple interest, the need to know, was enough to make one fixate on this whole thing. More to the point, it provided an adequate distraction for him as Cameron sutured him. She did not comment, although she plainly knew what was going through his head. Was she not saying anything more for the sake of decency, or simply because she did not understand? That, too, was a mystery.

A mystery he could dispel right here and now by merely asking her. But he couldn't do that. That would lead to something...why, it would lead to something else, now wouldn't it? He was afraid. What would it be like with her. As in, _with_ her? That was a fucked up thought. Get that outta your head, Johnny. Strange how one thing leads to another. It invariably, always does.

A few minutes later and she was done with him. John absently felt at the closed wound as she pulled the needle away and wiped it before replacing it in the first aid kit. It ached in pain as he touched it, but the thing wasn't gonna get infected, anyhow. He took a moment to wipe his face and looked down at the sutures again. It was a good job.

_An even better job right now would be-_ Ahh, fuck you, you horny prick. Get that shit outta your head. Creep. He was obviously hard now, but he made an effort to ignore it, and hoped she would as well. It'd be funny, in a cosmic sort of way, if she commented on it, like in passing, or something. Embarrassing, but funny. He turned his head up and thought for a moment. Trying to dispel this whole train of thought.

John said, "So, uh, what'ya think happened?" Best to keep things on track, what with what had happened earlier today.

She didn't ask about what he was referring to. She knew; "I'd venture a ninety percent chance that Daniel Forsythe is intimately involved with the genesis of Skynet, given the Russian mafia presence, Michael Oxferod's presence, and, obviously paramount, the T-800."

It took John a second to puzzle through the formalities, but not too long. He said, in between winces, "Mike said he was snooping on us."

Cameron shook her head, "He's not that efficient. He lied to you." There was a brief pause, as though Cameron was considering saying something more. She appeared to decide against it, however.

"You can't know that."

She was silent for a moment, considering that. "No," she finally said, "...But I'm very, very sure."

John said nothing. He merely nodded, "So...what do we do, then?"

Cameron smiled wanly at him, which was rather odd, as it didn't seem like the thing that would easily coax a smile out of her; "We should hear your mothers opinion first."

"I guess," John said. "If you wanna know what I think, we should try and catch up with Forsythe."

"That'd be prudent."

John frowned, obviously having rather heard the words "good idea." Deciding that the conversation was basically over, he tapped his left leg. Softly. "How's it feel to you?"

Cameron instructed him to pull his left pant-leg up a bit. Smiling a bit --not at all wistfully, or embarrassedly; this was all "_hot-girl-touching-leg"_ smiling--, he complied. Cameron brushed her hand against his leg, let it lay there for a moment, and pulled away. John pulled down the denim and looked at her, trying to wipe the smile off his face. He suspected that he didn't do a good job of succeeding there. He was only dimly aware of the fact that he was breathing rather haggardly right now.

"It's sprained," she said rather absently. Her eyes seemed distinctly unfocused, as if she was considering something. Strange how the mind-processes of a neuro-net computer chip could translate itself into her face so well.

"Oh," he said. He continued to stare at her, like he wanted something. Things felt really surreal, all of a sudden.

"You're attracted to me."

"Yes."

They nodded in unison. John looked away, saying, "I, uhm..."

Cameron patted the other couch cushion. She looked very stiff, all of a sudden, as though preparing. John was suddenly very afraid. Not as in "boo" afraid, but...

It was hard to explain. This felt decadent. All he could think about was the couch. He was fifteen years old. A kid. He shouldn't do this. This was very, very bad. The cat was staring at them. He got up and sat down next to Cameron, feeling something in his back, his legs, arms. He felt as though he'd snap. Like a wet twig. What did she want out of this?

Cameron turned to him, eyes running across him. God, she wanted this, didn't she? How was that fucking possible? He was shaking his head absently, knowing what he'd say. But god, he wanted. He _so_ wanted. So terribly. Did she want this, or did she want data? Did she want to become involved with him, in him, or was this fulfillment of some ulterior motive?

Cameron laid a hand on his thigh. John's shoulders tensed up. It was indication enough of what was about to happen. There was a long, pregnant pause, and she carefully moved the hand forward to the lip of his jeans. This wouldn't even be romantic. There was a purpose here, no beating around the bush. There was...grim purpose here, almost. He couldn't do it.

"No, p-please." He looked at her, pleadingly. She had to stop this, had to be part of this. If she kept going, he wouldn't resist. This was terrible.

Cameron removed her hand, looking almost relieved. "You're right. I'm sorry."

John thought back to earlier today, how he and Cameron had shared such a _moment_ together after getting off the bus, just feeling each other, knowing. In a way, wasn't this simply going full circle? This acknowledgement? Should he go on?

No. He shouldn't.

Cameron stared at him, eyebrows raised, "When, then? This is inevitable."

"It is?" he whispered.

"It feels that way."

"Let's...forget this happened."

"Impossible."

Looked at her. What was this about, anyway? Fulfilling him? And her? What did she get out of this? That question just revolved, revolved, revolved in his head. _What does she get out of this?_ Why was she the one directing this, and not him? He was the fucking teenager here. He was the one who was supposed to obsessed with sex and all that bullshit. He wanted this, no fucking doubts there. He'd have to be dead to not want something like this. But it'd be stupendously irresponsible of him. It would mess things up so badly, with him and with her. With everyone.

John sighed, "Then we'll ignore it."

"For now."

He shuddered. They both sat back on the couch, almost at the same time. John felt as if he was in a mine-field, ready to explode at any moment. Any moment, he could just lose control. Throw an arm around her. Get his stupid fucking pants off. In a way, he dully realized that he _didn't _want this. Otherwise he would have simply...

"Are we still friends?" Cameron asked. The question would have sounded hilarious if this shit wasn't so serious.

John instantly whipped his head toward her and smiled broadly, "Yeah. I think we'll survive." His smile waned, and he merely looked pensive for a moment. "We'll survive," he repeated, voice heavier this time.

Maybe this was a dream. Maybe he'd feinted from the pain of the stitching, and he was just fantasizing all of this in his head. Constructing his responsible, burden-filled refusal of Cameron's advances. _This had to be a dream._ John blinked. He found himself on the tree stump. He was staring down at himself. And staring at Cameron, who said nothing, who was idly petting the cat, who meowed every time her hand stroked its head. She did not look at him. She seemed to be avoiding his glance, in fact. John did not remember getting up from the couch. Perhaps it was a dream. A fantasy.

Ten minutes passed before John and Cameron's heads perked up at the sound of someone's approach. John recognized the voice of Derek Reese. He sighed in relief.

Maybe it was a dream.

But it probably wasn't.


	15. Drained by a Leech

**Flight is Right**

Chapter Fifteen: Drained by a Leech

The telephone was ringing. Charley Dixon turned over in his bed, toward Michelle's side. He rolled slightly against her; she could answer the damned thing, he felt beat.

No one was more surprised than him when he rolled into nothingness and yelped in surprise as tumbled off the bed. Cursing vehemently, he scrambled up, narrowly avoided slipping on the now-fallen blankets, and stared wide-eyed at the empty bed. Where the hell... He groaned softly and settled back down onto the bed, sitting on Michelle's side. It didn't take long for his fatigue to take full control and he slowly, methodically laid his head on the pillow. It was extremely comfortable. Just a little rest, and then he'd be up. He'd take a shower and feel like a human being again. Michelle was probably in the bathroom. Yeah, that was it. He'd wait for her. Just resting, of course. He did_ not_ look at the alarm clock, knowing he wouldn't like what he saw on it. He had the distinct feeling that he'd oversle-

zzzz

The telephone woke him up again about half an hour later. He went through a similar routine and subsequently found himself sprawled out on the floor again. Opening his eyes took a formidable effort; it was just too tempting to let them remain closed. He definitely overslept. Sighing, he managed to make one eyelid crawl open and sent a look toward the alarm clock. **2:15.** Christ on a crutch, he'd slept half the day away! He panicked, leaping up from the floor, eyes darting around for a shirt to put on. He spied his plain white one near the side of the bed and slipped it on without a thought, silently cursing himself. People got fired for crap like this, and as a paramedic he definitely wasn't immune to such things. It was way too late to come in; Jared was taking over for him in fifteen minutes anyway, so it'd be a lost cause. He let out a huff of air and rubbed his forehead absently. Just had to make a phone call and explain things. Hopefully they wouldn't crucify him for this one mistake, and he didn't see why they should. He wasn't exactly hated where he worked, and he'd been in the media before, to boot. That bus fire in 2004 had made him a local hero; not a single person dead, all stabilized by Charley and his partner before they got more professional treatment. From an economical stand-point, it'd be stupid to fire him for not coming in one day...right?

Maybe they were calling him right now. That must be why the phone was ringing! He turned to jog into the living room when his eye caught something taped onto the alarm clock. He did a smart turn-around and snatched the paper note up. Read it.

_I called in at work for you. I'm going on my shift now. See you at seven - Michelle._

Well, that took care of that. But only _that._ Just reading the note reminded Charley of how stupendously screwed up his life had become in the last few weeks. Michelle was getting suspicious, which made her increasingly curt and business-like with him. He felt tired all the time now, and more than a bit depressed. At times he'd simply sit on the couch, or in his ambulance and stare off into space, lost in thought. For hours. If he got a patient, his hands would start to shake; his usual competence would be replaced with shakiness.

Now, some people went through this in their life; shaky periods with your wife, kids, your whole outlook. Sometimes it was mid-life crisis, or a result of over-drinking yourself, or the fact that you were looking at other women. Some of that was true for Charley, but the real reason for his depression wasn't something he could necessarily bring up with a counselor: the reason was killer robots from the future. Skynet. Unprecedented destruction in only four years time. He tried not to think about it too hard. After helping that guy in Sarah's house, he'd tried to wash his hands of the whole thing; forget about her, forget about John and the creepy..._thing_ that hung out with them... It was what she wanted. It was what he wanted. But knowing that she was alive and, more importantly, what her purpose in life was...it just wouldn't leave him alone. Three billion people. Dead. _In four years._ That sort of knowledge could drive you insane.

So yeah, he and Michelle weren't getting on all that well, especially after that creep Kester showed up. A few arguments later and they were reduced to writing notes. She'd given him the whole shpeal about trusting him, and the fact that she wasn't a needy, suspicious wife, but at the same time, she wanted honesty. And honesty was something Charley couldn't give her, not without her thiking him, and quite reasonably, a certified loon. If he was lucky, it would all blow over.

Right now, though, he had to see who was calling him. And so incessantly, too. He licked his lips and got up from the bed, groaning a bit as his knee-joints popped like firecrackers. He hated thinking about this stuff, but it just nagged at him. That robot in the shed..._both_ robots in the shed. It gave him the chills. He walked out of the room and jogged the rest of the way toward the wireless phone in the living room. It was about near the place where John had throttled him a few weeks ago. He didn't blame the kid, necessarily, cause he'd looked scared out of his mind when he saw Charley. But to...bah, it didn't do to think about it. He'd talked with John when he'd been at their house. The kid apologized to him at least three times during the duration of his stay there, so he was more than willing to let it go. Happy to.

Charley plucked the phone out from the receiver and checked the caller ID. Unknown, it read. Probably his cable provider. Always wanted to him to switch to their newest thing, which would involved a length installation that would simply bring him more headaches than it was worth. Needless to say, he'd stopped taking their calls. He stared at the phone for a few seconds, hopefully. Maybe it stop-

_Ri-i-i-ing!_

Goddamnit. Why the hell not? If it was a sales pitch he'd simply hang up. He thumbed the green phone icon and held the thing to his ear.

He said nothing. He was usually quite generous, greeting wise, but this time he erred on the side of reservation. This struck him as a bit strange, and he was damned if he could put his finger on the reason why. He was getting silence from the other end as well, but someone was clearly listening. He heard the sound of a motor running in the background, and low voices as well. A car horn beeped suddenly, and he cocked an eyebrow as he heard a loud exclamation.

"Charley?"

A chill ran up his spine, and his hair suddenly stood on end. The phone nearly toppled from his grasp. It was Sarah Connor.

He composed himself swiftly; this was obviously not a social call, he could tell that as easily as he could tell day from night; "Sarah... what's wrong?"

There was a brief silence on her end. "I'm gonna keep this short, and I'll...wait, is your wife home?"

Charley briefly considered lying. But that'd be hilariously dumb of him. Gritting his teeth, he said, "No."

"I'm driving towards your house. Is that ok?"

Charley dropped his phone-hand to his side for a moment and wiped his other hand across his forehead, and then down his neck. They couldn't _really_ be asking this. But who was he kidding? Of course they were. Goddamnit. He brought up the phone again and asked, "Are you being followed?"

"No," she said at once, and with great certainty. It was the sort of certainty that came with experience, particularly in car chases. Charley, needless to say, had never perceived that in her. She'd kept so many secrets from him, it was difficult for him to puzzle out why he still felt something for her. "I've got a few injuries," she said.

Charley sighed. "No," he said. There. Take charge. He knew when he had to bring his fucking foot down. He couldn't let their escapades run roughshod over his life.

Silence from Sarah, although she'd probably expected an answer like this. Still, it was a complication for her, that much was evident. She'd just have to deal. Charley continued, "You were a paramedic too, Sarah. I'm sure you can handle it."

She didn't ask why he was refusing. She was pretty understanding that way. But she was also piercingly Machiavellian when she wished it, "John's hurt, along with Derek, and we don't have any of the necessary things to treat them with."

Charley didn't even curse her, or pause to consider what she'd said and how it made him change his mind. She was that effective. He went into action immediately, rushing toward the closet where he kept his emergency supplies; "How bad is John?" he said, "Talk to me."

"Minor burns over his torso and some fragmentation," Sarah said after a moment's pause. Her voice was pretty heavy as she said that, while maintaining her typical overtone of cool professionalism.

Charley blinked as he tore open the closet and reached for the local anesthetic, "F-fragmentation? You mean, like shrapnel?"

"Um, yes," she said.

"Christ, have any of those things been removed?" What the fuck was a fifteen year old getting...holy christ. Charley had the feeling of one who's been in the dark, complacent for years, and is suddenly awakened by something terrible. Shit just got real.

"Yes, and I'll explain later. We're all coming, alright?"

"Alright," he said, and he hung up the phone without another word. He shut his eyes tight for a moment and let out a long, hissing sigh. Thank god Michelle wasn't around. He continued to dig in the closet.

--

Charley had expected to have his hands filled, and he wasn't disappointed. They came in about ten minutes after Sarah called him, pulling up on his driveway in some version of a Sedan. It certainly wasn't the military jeep he'd spotted in front of their house, but he wasn't what you'd call intent on asking too many questions. Christ, at times he felt like some sort of...He felt like a guy who'd involved himself --inadvertently-- in the mafia, that was almost how it was. The guy from...the future, he supposed, looked at him as though observing a big, black bug on a perfectly white wall. Like Charley was a goddamned _tool._ It freaked him the hell out.

Anyway, they wasted no time coming in, and Charley's eyes widened with every figure who stepped out of the Sedan. With the eye of an experienced paramedic, Charley assessed the injuries from his living room window; Sarah was walking with a discernible limp, John was shirtless and had some obvious stitch marks lining his right forearm. His chest was pock-marked with red splotches; burns. Like his mother, he walked with an obvious limp, dragging his left leg along behind him. The guy from the future, wearing a green overcoat, appeared fine until Charley noticed that a pool of blood had spread along his right forearm; he'd been shot and he didn't even realize it. The girl...the robot...she was positively covered in injuries. A bit of dried blood had congealed on her forehead. Her torso was bloodied in several places, and he could make out some obvious lumps of black adorning her grey jacket; shrapnel. Christ, with those wounds she should have been...

Ah. Hah. But she wasn't dead. That was because she was a robot. Charley wouldn't bother with her. He trotted over to the front door, unlocked it, and pushed it open. Sarah stood there, hand raised to knock on the door like a civil person, and not a fugitive on the run from both the F.B.I. AND killer robots from the future. They stared for a moment in grim analysis of each other. A lifetime ago he would have happily died for this woman and her son. _His_ son, practically. And now...they were dragging him into the mechanizations of this on-going war that hadn't even chronologically _begun_ yet. He'd been so complacent. He always thought to himself, a little after fixing up the guy, Derek, his name was, _Is this my fate? Am I meant to be part of this?_ God, he was a paramedic.

He really, really wished they could have told him all of this earlier. But, then again, he probably wouldn't have believed any of it. Who would, after all?

"Hi, Sarah," he said.

She nodded at him knowingly, mumbled a greeting of similar, dispassionate effect, and turned around, gesturing for the rest of them to enter. She walked in and conspicuously stared at the small picture on an end-table near the stairs. It depicted Charley and Michelle, arm in arm. Another one, behind it, showed them in their wedding outfits. Charley decided that it would be prudent not to mention that he'd relegated photos of her and John to the attic. He'd kept them for a while, and that had been painful for him. After marrying Michelle he'd simply wanted to move on. And he had...until he saw a nude Sarah Connor looking blank and confused on an L.A. freeway. Sarah watched the photos for a moment, her face scrutinizing, and finally turned away and started to walk slowly into the rest of the house, simply looking around, lost in a world that could have been. She sighed.

John came in next and spent much less time looking around at the place; he'd already been in here, after all. His eyes drifted toward the end-table as well, probably looking for the camera he'd been fiddling with the night he'd broken in. Charley had, after getting a few ice packs that night for himself, laughed a bit at that whole thing. John had always been mesmerized by technology.

"Hey, little help?" John said to him, limping. He didn't sound demanding about it; he never really did, but there was a certain huskiness in his voice that suggested that he wouldn't stay awake much longer.

Charley shook himself out of the reminiscing and darted forward to help John into the house, "How's the leg?" he asked.

"Sprained," John said drowsily, "But it's alright." He looked pretty upbeat, all things considered. Even punchy, as if he'd ran out of energy for brooding. He removed the near constant grimace on his face for a moment to smile at his would-be father. He was happy to see him. The whole smiling, boyish image reminded Charley of the many times he'd taken John to the swimming pool and they just would just fuck around for hours. John would laugh a lot. This smile was a ghost of those times, and it contained a measure of bitterness, like John himself was remembering those times as well.

To Charley it was almost eight, nine years ago. To John...christ. Those memories would still be fresh. He'd still carry hope that, maybe, it could possibly return. It wasn't that easy, of course. Charley wrapped his arm around his shoulders, looked him over for burns, and walked him into the living room before laying him down on the couch. Behind them, Derek and the robot followed in. They were giving each other a wide berth, which simply solidified the concept in Charley's mind that they didn't like each other one bit.

John shut his eyes almost immediately and settled his head back against the soft arm behind him. Charley stared at him for a moment. John had...been the world to him at one point in his life. He was still struggling to regain that feeling. He wondered, terribly, if it was even possible.

He sighed and turned back to the other two. Sarah was off somewhere in the house. He gave Derek a brief once-over and said simply, "Let's get that...uh, bullet wound dealt with."

Derek's eyes narrowed and he cocked his head forward jutting his chin out toward Charley, "What bullet wound?"

Charley pointed. Derek's eyes followed the trail and subsequently widened as they settled on the splotch of dark redness on his forearm, "What the fu- agghh..." His left hand stabbed toward the wound and put pressure on it. Charley did his best not to roll his eyes. If the shot had gone anywhere else but through the meat of his arm, it'd be pretty serious. As it was, this was a far cry from the gut-shot he'd suffered a week or two ago. Charley called to Sarah and gave her what she needed for patching him up.

"Christ, I didn't even notice," she said musingly as she examined the wound. Charley, in the meantime, sent a look toward the robot girl. She was staring back impassively, analyzing him. She looked completely fine, sans the obvious "wounds" covering her body. It looked like there were a few bullet holes in her as well. Christ, but she could take a beating.

They watched each other for a brief moment before she spoke, all business-like, yet with an air of...sardonic condescension that he'd noticed the other week. "I require tools with which to extract bullets from my torso."

Charley pointed toward the closet and said, "Knock yourself out."

"That won't be necessary," the robot assured him as she started toward the closet. "I can carry out the procedure while conscious," Charley sighed. Meanwhile, Sarah and Derek were bantering over something, mentioning the name "Kyle" a few times. Derek looked more annoyed than pained, and he was filling his sentences quite liberally with swear-words. Charley thought that was a kind of douchey thing to do, especially with a fifteen year old in earshot. And speaking of which...

He grabbed the local anesthetic from the table and walked over to the couch. John's eyes flicked open and stared up at him.

"Where's your wife?" he asked.

"At the hospital," Charley explained, crouching over him. He asked him where the fragmentation wounds were. John rolled around on the couch and gestured to his back. Charley identified two wounds, one of which had a piece of fragmentation still inside. He could see the black tip of it sticking out, but it didn't appear to have caused any great damage. The other fragment had scratched a long, crescent-shaped scar that stretched from the left side of his upper abdomen up to his left shoulder-blade. He couldn't see any shrapnel. Charley sighed and ordered him to flip around again so he could assess the burn marks on his torso.

"When's she get home?"

Charley shrugged, "Seven, uh, eight? Seven, yeah."

"Good," John said, "Don't have to deal with any Bonnie Situation, then."

Charley laughed, "Hope we don't have to call the Wolf, tell you that much." John smiled broadly. Pop-culture references had been a running trend in their conversations for about as long as they'd lived in the same home. God, the past...

"How'd all this happen?"

John looked at him and slowly shook his head, "You don't wanna know."

"I meant the burns."

"Oh. My t-shirt burned off."

"Were you conscious as that happened?"

"I don't think so," John answered, his voice blatantly distant. He visibly shivered, probably at the memory of what had happened, whatever it might have been. Certainly it was bad enough to warrant gun fighting and grenades going off. He should probably check the news soon. Charley stared at John for a moment and sighed once more. There was a dull, ringing _clang_! further off in the house; the robot was dealing with her shit. Charley stared off into space for a few seconds before rubbing his forehead. This was...insanity, all of it. It was fucking crazy.

He finished up with the burns, "It looks minor; I know it doesn't feel that way, but it'll heal up in a few hours. Some anesthetic can help the pain." He held up the bottle.

But John shook his head, "No. I can take it." He said it with conviction.

Charley stared at him and shook his head dully. Why the hell should he refuse? Charley had plenty of the crap. He said as much. John refused once more, "I need to learn how to handle it."

"_Handle_ it?" Charley repeated incredulously. "John, you...- You don't have to go through that sort of pain." He tried not to sound as if he was addressing someone who was mental, someone who was some kind of masochist. He wasn't a good judge of his tones, though.

The teenager looked at him in mild confusion, tinged with sadness. Looked away suddenly, like he was embarrassed. He knew where Charley was coming from. He was still a kid, for christ's sake. To say that he could _handle_ the pain, and so cavalierly, was a concept Charley could barely wrap his mind around. Why did he want to go through something like this? _Why?_

Why, to prepare, of course. John thought this was expected of him. He was a person surrounded by others with expectations. A standard. That was... John sighed and looked him in the eye. "Alright."

He was making _a concession._ That shit was insane. Charley hesitated for a moment, just about on the verge of leaving well-enough alone. He...he couldn't actually let him go _through_ that. That'd be negligent of him as a medic, AND as the boys guardian for two years. And yet he was right there, laying on the couch, burn marks all over his chest, saying he could handle the pain. Not because he was _macho, _or wanted to seem that way. He thought it was _necessary_ that he should go through it.

Fucking nuts. Charley quickly got out a gauze sponge and wiped it against John's forearm. He stabbed in the local anesthetic a moment later. John blinked after a moment and touched a hand to his chest. He pressed the hand down a bit. Obviously felt nothing. He looked thoughtful for a moment before settling back again. Turned his back to Charley. The paramedic re-found the shrapnel wound, absently checked for extraneous wounds that he may had missed, selected the smallest medical plier from his medical kit, and extracted the fragment. It was jet-black, almost the size of a finger nail. About as wide as a hard nail is from the top up. Charley stared at it for a moment in grim fixation before tossing it into a nearby plastic bag. It was only now that he realized he'd been holding his breath.

John said, "'s'it out?"

Charley stared at his...at John for a moment, his throat suddenly full, his heart heavy with emotion. He stared down at this boy...this _person._ The things he'd been ignorant of...This, all of it, was inhuman. It wasn't _right._ The kid shouldn't be subjected to this at his age. No one should. He had to talk to Sarah.

"Yeah, it's out."

--

They were sitting around Charley's table, on Charley's chairs, drinking Charley's coffee. All except the robot chick. She was standing sentry between the kitchen and the living room, keeping an eye on John's sleeping form. Charley himself was drinking Charley's coffee; God knew he needed it. He was still puzzling over how he'd explain the condition of the house to Michelle; he wasn't an avid cleaner, never had been, and even if he did make an effort, his wife would _still_ figure out that something had happened. It was around four o'clock.

Derek, a few white bandages slung around his forearm, was staring at the paramedic with an almost predatory glare. It was Charley who'd called this little accord, and he was determined not to be put off. He gave his best poker face to the...soldier, he supposed he was, and looked toward Sarah. He pointed at her, "I have a few questions," he said, "And since I provided help, I expect a few answers. Is that alright?"

Sarah nodded briefly, "Of course." Charley nodded in return until she inclined her head forward and said, "But take it from me, Charley...you don't want to get anymore involved than you already are. I'm sorry I even came to you, but..." she spread her hands.

Charley waved the gesture off, "I have a right, Sarah."

"Says who?" Derek intoned darkly. It was enough to throw Charley entirely off his train of thought for a moment and he glared at Derek, his expression wavering between anger and timidness. The guy wasn't doing it to sound like a badass. He meant it.

Charley stared for a moment and thought it would be wise not to answer that. Or maybe it wouldn't. Goddamn. Nothing risked, nothing earned, or however they said it. He turned away from Derek and said, "Alright, first off: What the hell is going on?"

There was a slight silence. Sarah blinked and said, "Do you mean in general, or today?"

"Today."

"No."

Charley stabbed a hand toward her, "C'mon, none of that. It was the hotel, right? The Hilton? I've been watching the goddamned news."

He expected that to at least coax a reasonable response out of her. Instead she merely shrugged nonchalantly. Charley gaped at her for a moment, trying desperately not to explode. He was a fairly mellow person, laid-back. He rolled with the punches. But sometimes he just lost it, and this was nearly one of those moments.

Perhaps sensing this, Sarah leaned forward, "Trust me, Charley. You don't want to know. It'd be safer for all of us if you didn't."

Fair enough. He could see that point. He could potentially compromise them, that was a legitimate concern. He was damned if the need to know what was going on wasn't over-powering, though. He waved his hand again, "Alright...alright."

Derek grunted in some satisfaction. A moment later and he slurped from the coffee. He stared at the cup for a moment.

"Good," he said, holding it up, "The, uh, coffee. It's good." He smiled.

_Like he's never had a drink of the stuff before_, Charley thought wryly. Yeah, like that was possible. "I'll pass on the compliments to my wife." They grinned at one another, which was vital. Creating synergy lessened the other man's chances of giving him an unceremonious shot to the forehead. Sarah, on the other hand, bristled. Charley briefly wanted to yell in her face; "Don't give me that, _you_ left me, not the other way around."

Instead, he said, "Alright, second question. More of a statement, I guess, though..." He looked at the two of them, received brief, impatient nods, and went ahead, "I realize I'm not much more than an accessory right now, even if you don't fully believe that, Sarah. It's true, anyway, but...y'know, I don't wanna have to keep...having myself thrust into all this business. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather you didn't pay any more of these, uh, visits."

"Fair enough," Derek said. "Continuing to involve you would be dangerous, anyway."

"My, uh, point exactly," Charley agreed. He looked toward his former fiance.

Sarah said, "I understand. I can't make any guarantees, but I understand and I'll try to keep...a wide berth."

They stared at each other for a moment in mutual sadness. For Charley...the wound her leaving had caused had more than eight years to heal until it became a dull ache instead of full-blown despair. For Sarah it was more recent...if she felt anything at all, that was. For all he knew, he'd been nothing more than a brief accessory in her life, to be used and discarded. Goddamnit, he didn't need any of this right now. He dispelled it from his mind.

"Alright, one last question. And then...I'll give you guys a half hour to pack up and leave."

Again, the dual nod. Charley briefly wondered if they weren't involved in each other. They seemed to regard each other with mutual distaste, and yet there was a link between them that couldn't be denied. Unfortunately for Derek, that link had to be temporarily broken; "If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to Sarah alone."

Derek sent a look toward her, his face darkening with instinctual suspicion. Sarah offered him a small, almost invisible nod, and the soldier pushed himself up from the table. Stared at Charley for a few seconds, almost completely impassive. Yet underneath was an unmistakable malevolence. He mumbled out a "thank you" for the coffee and stalked out of the room. The robot chick, who'd been silent during the entire exchange, followed him, obviously picking up on the fact that she wouldn't be wanted as well.

They looked at each other for a few seconds. They could do a lot. Say a lot. Charley could try to find some closure, somehow, for that sucking void in his life. But it was trodden ground. They'd talked, very frankly, during that whole deal with Derek and the other robot, the one that the chick wasted. Got it all out of the way.

It would take a while for it to set in, and Charley suspected that Sarah had enough on her plate as it was, so he decided not to beat around the bush and get to the point he wanted to make. Because even if he was willing to let go of _their_ relationship for now...

"I, uh, wanted to discuss John with you."

It didn't mean he had to forget about _him._

"What's there to say?"

"A lot, I think. I don't even know where to begin, though."

She was silent. Waiting for his judgment, which she would tear apart and dispatch with clinical efficiency. Charley wasn't intimidated, he felt so strongly about this.

"What's happening with him. It isn't right. It's downright...criminal, in fact," he sighed. "I hate to be so blunt, but it's..." he trailed off and looked at her. "Getting shot at, dealing with all of...this, all of what you've, uh 'taught' him..."

"I know what I'm doing, Charley," Sarah said, and he could see that she didn't like any of this. All at once he could see that her conviction in her life's "mission" was unshakable, had been for years. She couldn't see how she was destroying the life of her own son, she was so convinced in all of this. Was he not getting something here? It was possible, but he really didn't think so. He tried not to think about nuclear wars, killer robots, or anyone's destiny. All he saw was a kid who was obviously shaken by his life, yet shared the same utter conviction of his mother. To them it might be loyalty, maturity. To Charley it was madness.

"Yeah?" he said, almost whispering now, "Really?"

He pointed into the living room, where he saw nothing and nobody except the back of the couch. "Did you even see him? Did you see your son?"

Sarah shut her eyes and nodded, her hands balling into tight fists.

"If you're trying to tell me how to, to..."

He cut her off; "Raise him? You know what? Yeah, I fucking am. I think you're _killing_ him with all of these expectations AND GUN-TOTING BULL-" Well, this was escalating quickly.

"DON'T TELL ME HOW! YOU DON'T KNOW-" Charley recoiled at her sudden, feral anger. He'd never seen this in her before, not ever. Her face was flaring, eyes wide and filled with murderous flames. He cut her off anyway.

"Sarah, he's a fucking CHILD AND HERE HE LOOKS LIKE HES BEEN IN A GODDAMNED WAR!"

"HE _IS IN A GODDAMNED WAR."_

_"_Oh, yeah, that's fucking great-"

-"You don't get it, Charley. He's _stronger_ that you make him out to be."

Charley shook his coffee cup at her, sending a deluge of the stuff spilling out over onto the table, "What's this about _strength?! _Christ, I, I - he should be living a normal life! Going out..." he stopped and stabbed a finger toward her before she could fill in the gap with a tirade of her own; "Maybe _you_ don't remember the life we had, Sarah. Or maybe you do and wanna forget. That's _fine _with me. But _I _remember the life we had. _I_ remember the _son_ we had. He was...No, no, no. _Is._ He _is _a great, a fucking great person and..."

He couldn't go on. He merely gasped for a sudden breath and looked away, embittered.

"You're killing him."

Sarah was shaking her head with every word, and she still was, even when he wasn't speaking. She just _refused_ to believe it.

"I'm not going to compromise with you, Charley. I'm not going to grant _concessions._ I'm _not_ going to smile and nod at you. You don't understand. You've seen proof of what's going to happen, and you want out. I want you out. But John _won't_ be out _with you._"

Charley waved his hand reflexively, "He's your kid, I can't take him away from you."

"I wasn't talking about that," Sarah said cooly. The explosion was over. They'd vented at each other, yelled. Now was the time for talking. It occurred to Charley that this was the only time since their meeting that they'd screamed at one another. All an act..."I won't stop his training. I won't stop taking him with me into danger. Because he _needs_ to learn how to fight, how to lead, how to...do all he's _destined_ to do. It's a horrible, terrible thing. I know."

"No...I don't think you do," Charley said. "I think you see him as an objective. As a military fucking asset. Your whole relationship has been colored by the knowledge of what would happen to him." He pushed his hand against his chest, "Not me, Sarah. Not me. I've seen him for what he is. A teenager. A _person_ with _feelings. _A fucking stupendous human being. And here you're draining him of all of that like a _leech, _turning him into a soldier. I think you're the one who doesn't get it."

"Now we're all sons of bitches," Sarah murmured.

Charley cocked his head; "What?"

"Nothing. You're wrong, and I'm wrong. Do you understand? I know where you're coming from, but it..." She stopped suddenly, her voice going far away, hurt. She bowed her head suddenly, blatantly struggling against tears.

She _did_ understand. "I try to make things as manageable as possible," she said quietly. "I do, believe me. I've given so much of myself to him..." she looked at Charley, who was shocked. "I'm trying my best to be his mother...and I don't know if it's even working, but I try. It's all I can do. If I shield him, shelter him, we're all dead. All of us. Every single last one."

"Christ," Charley said. It was more of a commentary on the whole situation than an agreement.

She wrapped her hands around her coffee cup and started pushing it back and forth. Her hands were shaking. "I can't do what you're asking. Please...try and understand that."

"I don't think I can," he said. He looked at her. "You're going to stop it, right? This war? You're gonna make sure it doesn't come to that?"

Sarah nodded. "I'm trying...with what power I have, I'm trying. Until then, though, the fighting won't stop. There'll be more of this, you can bet your ass."

"Will it already be too late for him by then?"

She didn't answer him. She simply stared at him for a few minutes, and there was finally silence. Time enough for this to set in. What a wonderful world, goddamnit. And the worst part was, Charley knew he couldn't do a thing. John was ultimately bound into subservience towards his mother and what she said. He was sure the kid didn't want it, but did he have the strength to say no? What would happen in a few years? How many people had to die, how many buildings had to explode, how many titanium plated robots needed to get burnt by thermite to end all this? How long before John was just a shell-shocked zombie who couldn't do anything but bark an order, or hold a gun? That wasn't right.

Maybe he didn't understand. Maybe he was just judging the whole thing based on what he'd seen today. But it was indication enough, in his mind, that something had to be done.

God, he was just beginning to re-realize how much he loved John. He'd experienced an inkling of it at their house, when he selflessly gave his own blood to save Derek. That was the John he knew, it was the one he was comfortable with. Seeing this...burnt, tired, frightened form sleeping on his couch, moaning occasionally...that tore Charley apart inside.

But what could he do?

Sarah had stopped crying. It occurred to the paramedic, shockingly, that he had probably been doing it himself. He'd been doing it because he was powerless to stop what he saw as being wrong. Sarah, because she understood, and went along with it anyway.

He was really tired. Christ, he'd been sleeping only two, three hours ago and he wanted to go back to bed already.

Outside, in the living room, John was staring absently toward Derek Reese, who stared back. They were hearing more than they were seeing. When the silence came, John's eyes became more focused. He dragged his head up and just looked at Derek. As he had before, the older man stared back in equal re-comprehension. They didn't say a word. It was impossible for either of them to tell exactly how the other felt. Better to leave it alone for now.

"Derek?" John whispered, barely audible.

The resistance fighter nodded.

"I'm sorry," John said. He laid his head back and stared past his head. "I'm sorry."

Derek knew exactly what he was talking about. He inclined his head forward, wincing briefly with the exertion on his right arm, and said, "Yeah, me too."

John nodded and wondered when it would be too late for him.

Author's Note: I keep on intending to do a general debriefing, but I always get too caught up in the characters. Hopefully it'll be along in the next chapter.


	16. Square One

**Flight is Right**

Chapter Sixteen: Square One

The pain was trickling away; everything, all over. The anesthetic was effective. He was given a bottle of the stuff, to be administered by mom. John Connor was barely conscious as they began to drive home, laying his head against the car window. She was next to him, making sure, as always, that he was alright. Her hand was laying lazily on top of his left leg. Almost certainly making sure that he wasn't getting any bad side effects due to the local anesthetic. Cameron Phillips did not take her eyes off him for even a second. His mom was driving. Derek Reese sat in silence next to her, brooding. Both of them were. They were driving away, leaving Charley Dixon alone to explain the state of his house to his wife. There was silence.

He couldn't feel anything, not really. All he had were visual cues. The anesthetic was making him drowsy. He felt like he was floating, but just almost. If he closed his eyes the effect was greater. Like he was floating around...in space. Weightless. He turned his head over to his protector and smiled with his eyes closed, not sure if she could even see it. He didn't see her reaction, if there was any at all. He tried to open his eyes and failed. His eyelids were like weights. John realized that this was probably the best time to fall asleep, and so he did. It wasn't as if he had a choice in the matter, though. He went on floating. His dreams were sketchy, blurred. It was confusing, unclear. Unlike the ones he'd been having recently. He saw, in a sort of movie-like way, himself walking toward the T-800 in the hotel. Arming the grenades on its belt and submitting himself to the possibility of death. It kept playing out. It was different each time, in subtle ways. One scene that he remembered upon waking up was him simply running in the other direction. And after a long while, it was _all_ he could remember. To him, that was his dream. Flight.

During his slumber John was briefly aware of his being carried. He wasn't sure who, exactly. They didn't wake him up. He felt both happy for this and patronized at the same time. It made him feel pampered, weak, and at the same time he embraced it as much as he did revile it. He felt the passing wind of cars, which made him aware of the fact that the anesthetic was no longer doing its work. That was alright, though. He didn't feel pain. He felt much kinder things, just the passing of wind in his face. The air felt familiar here, somehow. It was night. Maybe he was dreaming all this. He was placed in another car. It felt familiar as well. Then they started to drive again, and he abruptly lost what consciousness he'd had.

He slept for the rest of the trip, not stirring once.

--

Now was the time for listening, and learning. The first thing John did was get a clean shirt on from his room. He lingered in the bedroom for a brief moment, just briefly running his eyes across the interior. Nothing out of place. It was what he did every time he came back from school, or something. It was instinct, basically. He took a brief moment to stretch himself out a bit and grunted as nearly every joint in his body let out a crack. He felt stiff as hell. It was good to be home. The concept of "home" was still rather tenuous with him, of course, never having occupied a single house for more than a year. Home was home, though. Didn't matter where it was, or how it looked. It was a safe haven...psychologically at least. Plaster walls and brick wouldn't protect you against a rampaging metallic monstrosity.

Goddamn, but he needed to piss. John smirked a bit, amused by the transition from wistful thoughts to more primal, urgent ones. The smile grew wider at the desire to flop down on the bed and just lay there. He was home. The day felt as if it'd lasted for years, but he was home. He'd survived. Wasn't over yet, though. He turned and made his way back to the kitchen, where the others were sitting around, waiting for him. After making a quick detour at the bathroom, he took a seat and looked around.

Derek looked beat as all hell; he'd taken a shot and hadn't even realized it until Charley pointed it out. In spite of that, he looked alright. Kind of harried, almost nervous, though. Without even realizing it, the resistance fighter drew a hand up to his mouth and chewed on his nails for a moment before hastily withdrawing them. Definitely nervous, yeah. John really wanted to know what happened, as he was still pretty much in the dark. Must have been big.

Cameron took a seat next to John as soon as he entered. They spared a seconds glance and each tried to pack as much meaning in as possible. John was basically saying "we'll talk later." And she was agreeing, just as basically. She did it with more force than John could have summoned. Though their reaction times were obviously lagging, Terminators had the advantage of being able to present their expressions the way they wanted. This would be...what, their _billionth _"talk" today? It was really funny. Each was an evolution over the other, each a new revelation. John had never hated Cameron, or loved her, as much as he had in this day. Maybe he shouldn't bother, give them a moments rest. Take a step back. Cause if they talked again, maybe they actually _would_ do something this time.

The more he thought about their last encounter, the more he felt weird. More than weird, though. Kind of disgusted. Kind of. They'd nearly _done it._ How was that _possible?_ She...OK, stop. He should think about this later, cause now sure as hell wasn't the time. Sarah Connor was on the phone, ordering...something. Probably pizza. She was looking at the rest of them apprehensively, tapping her foot against the stove as the no-doubt chatty dude on the other side of the line talked her ear off. They stared back, waiting. Any other time and John would have cracked a grin at Sarah's attempts toward silencing the guy on the phone, but he just wasn't feeling it. For obvious reasons.

Eventually she stabbed the end-call button and looked over at the others, slightly flustered.

"Pizza should be here in a half hour," she said.

"What kind?" John asked. It seemed like the next logical step in the conversation. He was thinking _way_ too hard into all this.

"Who cares?" That was Derek. "Just sit down. Let's get this over with."

Sarah sat down next to John's uncle; "It's just cheese," she said. Derek spared a brief moment to glare at her before turning his head toward John.

"Tell us exactly what happened with you. _Exactly._ We need to get every detail down."

John looked over to Cameron. She stared back impassively; all on him, then. Damn her. Alright. He'd have to be pretty self-conscious about what he was saying, as he said it. He couldn't tell them _exactly_ what had happened, and that was fine. The stuff between him and Cameron was just that. Between them. No one else had to know.

Man, what time was it? He felt so tired. And God, it was only Tuesday.

"We went up to the security office. Derek left us half-way" -- he was careful not to look at Derek as he said that -- "Took care of the guards." He stopped for a moment and peered up at the others. Outside, a car playing loud, booming music went past the house. There was a slight crackle as someone tossed a bottle from the vehicle and onto the street. No one cared to look.

"How?" Sarah said.

John rolled his eyes; "We just pointed our guns at them and they surrendered. I yelled at them a bit and that was pretty much it."

"No shooting?"

He couldn't help it; his eyes drifted toward Cameron for a split second. She had to go along with the lie, or the whole explanation would be suspicious. They'd ask more pointed questions, and they'd be difficult to deflect. Cameron was already looking toward him; dispassionate, neutral. Hugely blank, yeah.

"No."

"More subtle than me," Derek said. He was always pretty fucking point-blank with his tendency for violence. It was sort of disturbing, actually, and John wasn't sure he liked any of that. He idly wondered how many people he'd shot dead today.

John merely smiled. It lacked feeling. "Yeah, so I took out the cameras and purged their records. The cops won't be able to ID us, or at least not from the tapes they won't."

He stopped for a moment, mulling over the next part. Just remembering that brief gun battle made him shiver in terror. It was the surprise of it all, the sudden, mindless violence. Those guys hadn't even cared, they just came in guns blazing. How'd they know?

"Um, after that a few guys ran into the room. They started, uh, shooting." He wouldn't go into detail. If he was lucky, he'd forget. Make room for the oncoming battles that would be. "Cameron took them out. All of em'."

They nodded, but neither of them looked happy about it. For different reasons, probably. "They spoke Russian a lot," John said as a way of elaborating. That was all he'd do. His left hand started to shake pretty badly, and he absently dropped it under the table, out of sight.

"I called you a little after that-"

Derek raised a hand --the one on his good arm-- and said, "Just a second; what did she do?" He balled the hand and stabbed his index finger toward Cameron.

John shook his head, feigning not understanding. Cameron rolled her head toward Derek and said, "I wanted to leave with John and get him to safety. That is my mission."

"I know what your fucking mission is," Derek said darkly. "Companions mean nothing to you, eh?"

"No," said Cameron.

He nodded. John stared at Derek for a moment, annoyed with the frankly unnecessary interruption. It was just an excuse to turn them against Cameron a little further, bit by bit, every day. He was getting sick of the man's paranoia.

"You mind?"

Derek turned his eyes to him, "Yeah, one last thing, just so we can put things into perspective."

"Later, Derek," Sarah said. She just wanted to get this out of the way, to not get hung up on secret agendas and all that crap.

He ignored her. He was glaring at Cameron; the conversation was firmly between them now, "Just remind me; do you listen to his orders? Is that part of your programming?"

"No."

"Well then. Why'd you listen to him? It was his idea, right? Going to wait on the second floor?"

"Yes, that was his idea. He persuaded me to follow it. It wasn't an order."

"Bullshit."

The only sound for about maybe a half minute was John's shaking hand tapping against the underside of the table. He felt like telling the older man off, just get him to shut up. This wasn't necessary, none of it was. Derek just couldn't leave her alone.

Derek turned his eyes to the others, looking at them as though they were his audience; "She's a machine. She _can't_ be persuaded. They follow a line, point A to point B. They just don't do shit like that. So who's lying? Huh?"

They shared another look, not even making an effort to conceal it. John's mind was traveling a mile a minute, trying to find a good way out of this. It was so meaningless, yet it was so_ big_ at the same fucking time.

John sent a pleading look toward Sarah. That didn't do him any good; she was with Derek now, a look of suspicion plain on her face. They'd come this far with the whole thing, so she may as well be curious. He sighed and leaned his head forward, drawing both their glances toward him. Derek blinked, obviously having expected the silence to carry on. And then he would make a few triumphant accusations and then...who knew? Alright. John could do this. It was OK. "Guys, lay off her. I begged her to do it. I pleaded. I kicked, yelled...I cried." Fuck, this was embarrassing.

Derek raised a huge eyebrow. Cameron eagerly poured into the break in his defenses; "He was very adamant. In the end I simply conceded after explaining the risks to him."

Sarah looked oddly pleased with the way this had turned out, while John himself was busily chewing on the knuckles of his right hand. He was technically telling the truth. But only technically. He hadn't pleaded to Cameron at all. He manipulated her with crocodile tears, because he _knew_ that was the quickest way towards getting what he wanted. He did it because he _knew_ that Cameron Phillips cared about him in her twisted way. Her strange, terrible way that enthralled him, scared the _hell_ out of him. And he just..._goddamn._ Derek was eyeballing John as if he'd never laid eyes upon him before.

"Really?"

John sighed again, "I didn't want you two to die." He saying it all defensively, which did little to...

Derek raised a hand, "I wasn't criticizing you, John. It's...fine."

John blinked. He sounded..._soft_ as he said that. Man, he didn't want to say "gentle," but...Man. He offered a thin, pensive smile toward Derek and laid back against his chair. The older man was visibly shaken, and John really couldn't tell why. The discussion went on as before. Derek did not apologize to Cameron. He would probably eat a live piranha before he spoke a word of apology towards a Terminator. John explained how they went toward the elevator shafts and eventually took out the T-800. Sarah visibly shivered as John described him.

"I don't know whether to associate that thing as...a hero or just another metal bastard," she said.

John sighed, "_He_ was a hero, mom. Not the other one. They're not all the same."

Derek was silent. His eyes were rather wide as he took in this exchange. Cameron didn't say a word as well. Maybe they'd both seen the Terminator John had come to refer as "Uncle Bob" and knew what they were talking about. Anyway, they left off on that fairly positive note and moved on. John decided not to mention Michael Oxferod. Although his appearance at the hotel was a mystery, John was guessing that he'd been telling the truth, and wasn't involved, per se. Easier to deal with that with Mikey himself. He went on to detail how they'd both taken injuries but were able to eventually escape.

"You sure it's dead?" Derek asked, "I don't think a grenade would be enough."

Cameron took over, "The T-800 was very likely to have been carrying an excess of ammunition on its person, which would have gone off in the event of an explosion like the one that occurred. Its critical systems would not have survived that much abuse."

Derek grunted again, "Those things are tough to kill. Is that it?"

John nodded, "Yeah...but we got another problem if it IS dead."

He let that settle in and, despite the seriousness of what he was eluding to, he had to keep himself from smiling. He liked it when he picked up on things no one else had. Made all of his training seem worth it. Sarah cursed almost immediately and slammed the kitchen table. Derek jumped at the sudden explosion and glared at her.

"We have to find the body," Sarah said. "We can't let _anyone_ get into contact with it." By _anyone_ she clearly meant _anyone_ with half a head of computer know-how.

Derek shook his head in confusion, "Why...OH! Goddamnit."

"Mmhm," John said. He couldn't help it; he felt damned proud of himself. Maybe he was acting a little smug, but what the hell? He felt entitled to it after a day like this; "How're we gonna deal with that?"

Everyone looked toward Cameron. She literally rolled her eyes in pseudo exasperation and said, "Powering down a whole city is not something I'd do twice a month."

Sarah leaned over the table and grabbed Cameron's collar. John grimaced in embarrassment; it was always quite a show when she got this vehement. Cameron cocked her head.

"That was for a _hand, _Tin Miss," Sarah spat, "If that body is in a _military compound_, I'd storm it with a _tank. _You do whatever it takes to recover it. John will hack into the police department and then we'll go it from there."

John had no problem with this. He grunted by way of acknowledgement and attempted to get the conversation moving elsewhere, "So what happened with you and Derek?"

They gave each other a look. John was surprised at how similar it was to the ones he'd been sharing with Cameron. Derek made a noise and gestured; all on her then. John smiled at his mother, but she was all serious. She described her break-in to Daniel Forsythe's hotel room.

"Dearly departed," she added.

John blinked. _Whoa._ "He's dead?"

She and Derek nodded in unison. Well, fuck.

"I found a bunch of e-mails on his computer, all of which were from the current owner of the Turk; a man named Sarkissian. From what I could tell, Daniel was interested in purchasing some bits of software from this guy."

"Was there any contact information?" said Cameron, "Addresses, businesses, phone number...?"

Sarah shook her head, "No. I didn't get to check much more of the place before the T-800 took a shot at me from the closet."

"Ugh," said John, shivering. Just as Sarah had flashes of her son being killed in brutal ways, so did John experience similar things. Hearing about her almost being killed wasn't exactly easy on him.

Sarah moved on to her and Derek's flight from the ninth floor, a narrative that included gangsters toting assault rifles and the T-800 pursuing them.

"Nailed a bunch of those bastards," Derek said. He looked appropriately grim as he said it, which, ironically enough, was somewhat relieving.

Sarah, on the other hand, glared openly at him. She didn't comment on it, though. Likely that she would later. John absently stifled a yawn in his throat. God, he was tired. He made a bunch of clearing-throat noises to try and hurry them along.

"Quiet you," Sarah said swiftly. She paused for a moment, her mouth hanging slightly open. She was mulling over how to explain what happened next. John grimaced. After a moment, she laid both hands on the table and crossed them, looking for all the world as if she was about to explain the birds and the bees.

"Daniel Forsythe got on our elevator," she said. "He was standing right there on one of the floors and we pulled him in."

Oh, no. "Did you...?" John gulped suddenly and couldn't finish the sentence. He just shook his head. They wouldn't just _murder_ him, right? Those exact words were in his throat, waiting to be expelled. _Murder._

"No," said Sarah. "Derek didn't either. He was hit by one of the mafiosos. Dead instantly."

John breathed a sigh of relief, and made no attempt to hide it, either. His mother's thin smile broke for just an instant, turning into a mask of dismay as she watched her son. John didn't notice. She went on, "We, uh..."

"Man was nuts," Derek said suddenly. "He knew everything. About Skynet, Tech-Com, this time-traveling business, all of it." The resistance fighter chuckled barrenly, "And that's not even the worst part."

John was silent, just staring at Derek, eyes as large as plates, or just about. _Holy crap, this is big._ That's all he was thinking. He knew the real horror show was coming next, it was a natural evolution. You don't reveal something with this much gravity unless it meant something really, really bad. He looked to Cameron, feeling as if he was turning to an advisor for help. She wasn't very useful though, sitting there with that distant look on her face, gears workin' away in that chip of hers. John turned back to Derek and submitted himself to what was coming. This, all of it, was leading to...

"He was all for it," Derek said, pressing on, "He told us that humanity deserved what it had comin'. He said that, uh, Skynet would protect certain people. Good people, apparently, uh..." he stopped and spread his hands, and John knew all at once that they'd lied to him. One of them had killed Daniel. Horribly, insanely enough, he thought of Sarah first. It would be so goddamned ironic for her to come out from left field and just pop the sonofabitch in the head after hearing this shit. More likely it was Derek, though. Of course.

He felt as though he should say something denunciating about the man. But he couldn't find any words, couldn't gather his senses. How the hell did that work? Building a computer system that destroys humanity is one thing when you don't _know_ what's about to happen. It's a whole different ballpark altogether when you know full well what that fucking computer will do.

That? That was just _evil._ More to the point, John realized, _that_ could be defined as "enemy." And they were in a war.

"He, uh, got killed before we could grill him some more," Derek finished. He sent a look over to his (unbeknownst) nephew, "I felt about...pretty much how you look right now."

"I'd bet," John said softly. "Christ. So, what does this mean?"

"He's definitely not helping Skynet anymore," Sarah said rather needlessly. She looked just as pissed off as Derek, though, if not more so. John idly wondered how that sort of thing worked out. Bah, he was always getting distracted, snooping...bah. Maybe it was a nervous thing.

Cameron looked over at John. Catching this, he nodded to her, "Go ahead."

"Forsythe likely knew the true nature of the T-800." She eyed Sarah and Derek for confirmation, got it, and pressed on, "The T-800 was manipulating him, then. Given the fact that it was an obsolete model, its mission here was likely a desperation maneuver on Skynet's part."

"Does that mean we're winning?" John asked, smirking a bit. He may as well try and lighten the mood. Derek looked pleased with that.

Cameron looked at him, "Not necessarily. Skynet may have perceived a threat towards its genesis and dispatched the Model 101 in response to protect him."

John mulled over this for a second as Sarah said, "Skynet isn't a very good tactician, is it?"

Cameron cocked her head, "I don't understand what you mean."

She leaned forward, "Telling Forsythe what he was destined to do might only produce the result of him not doing it in the first place. Understand?"

Cameron shrugged. "It could be. That doesn't take away from the fact that this Sarkissian has to be found. And the Sacremento Robotics Lab must also be destroyed."

John goggled at her, "What?!"

"If Daniel Forsythe was to be involved in the genesis of Skynet, then it's very likely that his associates would be as well. Their work must be destroyed, all of it."

"Hell yes," Derek said simply, leaning back in his chair.

Sarah raised a hand, "Hold on, what if he wasn't, though? What if Skynet's shooting blind here?"

"Unlikely."

John decided to put his own two cents in. He was tired of looking shocked and surprised and not contributing anything useful; "I think she's right, mom."

Sarah gave him a meaningful look. John stared back evenly and added, "...But we should concentrate on locating the Turk and the T-800 carcass." Sarah's eyes held onto him for a moment longer. There was a lot of weight in that, John could feel it. She was getting suspicious, then. Goddamnit.

They all stared outside for a moment as a car pulled up. Derek fingered his Glock 17 until a 20-something year old guy got out of the car, a pizza box in his hand. Sarah looked at Cameron and nodded. The Terminator stared for a moment in brief confusion before getting up. Sarah turned back to her son, "Anyway. Agreed, John."

"Thanks," he said, glowing a bit.

"How are we supposed to find Sarkissian?" Derek asked. He seemed to want to hold out on the "blow shit up" option.

"They could easily be linked," said John. "Find one and get the other." Cameron opened the door and started to chat in monotone with the pizza guy.

"Do you know how unlikely that is?"

"It's all we've got. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if the cops are going over Forsythe's information already. I can probably get all of what we need just by hacking into their database."

Derek smirked, "You techies..."

"What?" John said, half-smiling at the banter.

Sarah shook her head in dull wonderment, "As much as I'm glad to see you're not at each others throats anymore, let's get this over with. It'd be stupid to go out and bomb the labs in Sacremento simply on a whim, so I say we go with the latter choice, as proposed by John. Find the endoskeleton and concentrate on recovering the Turk."

Was she making an effort to put him in the saddle here? He couldn't really complain. It was good experience. Still, he didn't want to be calling the shots here. He just wanted to do his part. "Totally," John said. He sent a brief look outside. The pizza dude was retreating from the house, staring wistfully back toward the door.

Derek huffed, "Alright, fine."

"Alright, back to square one, then," Sarah said, rubbing her hands together. John was nodding with every word. Purpose! Again. Let's hope it doesn't freak you out this time. "Time to eat."

Cameron walked in, as though waiting in the wings for her cue. The pizza was held solely in her right hand and she laid it down on the table. Sarah smiled wryly at this; "Better waitress than I ever was."

Cameron said, "The pizza guy's boss is going to kill him. But it was worth it."

John rolled his eyes. Her inflection suggested that the whole thing was dead serious, though, so he said, "Yeah? Why?"

"He got my phone number in exchange for the pizza. There was no transfer of money."

Sarah opened the box and nodded approvingly at the Terminator, "Pretty good trade-off. I hope you didn't give him our actual number."

"Of course not."

John was grinning. He didn't even feel tired any more, he just wanted to stay here and hear the banter more and more. Just eat. Be a family, however dysfunctional. He loved all of it, it was like an escape from real life. Like entertainment. That was pretty screwed up, but it was the fucking truth. Cherish it however you can...He took a slice and offered it to Cameron. She cocked her head, smiled broadly, and took the pizza from his outstretched hands. They shared a private look. God, he felt like bursting inside. Happy. Just...he just couldn't stop grinning. Sarah took a seat and seemed all at once to unwind, decompress. She looked pensive, yeah, but so was John, so it was alright. He dug moments like this, to be honest. Amazing, the...transition.

There _was_ one thing bothering him, though. Not even really bothering him. It was just on his mind. He leaned across the table, over his slice of pizza and said to Derek, "Hey."

"Yep?" Derek had devoured half of his.

"While you were waiting for mom, did you see anything...I dunno. Interesting?"

Derek took another bite. He chewed for a few seconds as John hovered expectantly a few feet away.

"No."


	17. Seek, Part One

**Flight is Right**

Chapter Seventeen: Seek, Part One

It was seven. Way too early to think about going to bed, no matter how much John Connor wanted to. He stared at his alarm clock for a moment in absent dismay, lingering in the doorway to his room. He looked from the alarm clock...to his bed. God, it looked soft. You could fall asleep in something like that in just a second. _Bam!_ REM sleep, just like that. Just collapse and dream what you will dream, take in the energy you needed. Standing, not doing, just being in one place was a labor for John, it felt as if there were weights bearing down on every inch of his body. And every step like he was dragging a chain ball. He was tired, damnit.

A little bit down the hall he heard footsteps. He stepped into his bedroom and pressed himself against the wall. Whoever it was kept coming on down the hall and paused outside his room. He reckoned he could almost feel the persons eyes sweeping the interior. Why was he hiding? He started to quiet his breathing, tightly regulating the noise of intake. Tensed up. But man, why was he doing this? This wasn't play-time, for godssake. He should be hack...ah...sleeping? No, hacking. Right. The uh...LAPD database, right. He didn't really have to, of course. They wouldn't have shit logged in yet, everyone was still at the hotel for goodness sake. No real need for John to do anything. Maybe he just wanted to sleep.

As he got lost in thought, he forgot about quieting himself. He absently yawned, shutting his eyes tight. Whew, he'd be a _terrible_ sneaker. But really, he should just go right off to bed. Chances were he wouldn't be able to see half of what he was typing. No-

Derek Reese shambled into the room and sent a look over to John. John didn't notice. He was looking at his bed, longing plain in his expression. That thing would just mold around him if he flopped down on it. And then he'd be floating, or something. And after that, he'd be sleeping. Slowly, he fingered the bottle of local anesthetic in his left pocket. He'd fall asleep so fucking fast with that stuff in his system. Did he still have the syringe?

Derek cleared his throat. John bounced off from the wall, shuddered as a chill ran up his spine, and gaped at him.

"Jesus, you scared me."

The older man stared for a moment. A mixture of amusement and chagrin was plain on his face. "You know, John, it's difficult for me to see you as a commander at times like this."

John groaned, "Don't give me this. It's been a long day."

Surprisingly enough, Derek seemed to agree with this; "Absolutely. Go to sleep."

He should give a bitter retort to this. He _would_ under any other circumstances. Well, not _any_, but most. Something like "Hur, I don't sleep in the future, do I?" But he really wasn't feel up to it. Feel_ing_. Damn, even his thoughts were getting unhinged. And God...was he really just considering using a drug to help him sleep? Christ. He just said, "Is that it?"

"Eh. The metal wants to see you. It's outside."

"_She,"_ John corrected, which caused Derek to glare at him with something close to hate. Derek took a moment to master himself and said, "Well, I'll just tell _it_ that you're too tired."

"Derek," John said, and he turned his head to him, "I'm not in the mood to fight. Let's not fight. Can you do that?"

"What's this about-" Derek cringed. "Yeah. I can do that."

John tried not to smile. He was listening to him. _Cool._ He was a leader, baby. "Alright."

"But honestly, go to bed. You look like you're about to collapse."

What a great description. Really accurate, hit right dead on the mark. John felt like sleeping to celebrate Derek's prudent choice of words. "Tell her to come see me."

Derek nodded easily and left at once, looking eager to be able to retreat. He was scratching his head rather thoughtfully as he left. John remained where he was for a few seconds, swaying like a palm tree. His eyelids felt like anvils. How many similes could he pack into all of this? He was fucking tired. Right, ok.

Two seconds later and John was lying face down on his bed, arms stretched out to his sides. The fabric molded against his form, cushioned it, comforted. Sighing, he scooted up a bit and pressed his head against the nearby pillow. It was so _soft._ He turned his head towards the door and pushed it up again, like a cat nudging a leg. He was about to nosedive into unconsciousness when Derek reappeared in the doorway. John's eyes were shut tight, and he was taking nice, yawning breaths. Derek rapped twice on a side wall.

"Uhh huh?"

Derek was silent for a second. John could feel him staring at him, but it was alright. He was done with all that. With the stupid stuff, that is. The stuff between them. From earlier. It was alright. Sleeep.

"Never mind." Derek obviously didn't want to do Cameron any favors. John's eyes flickered and he slowly pushed himself up as the resistance fighter watched him, raising an eyebrow. He half-rolled, half-rose from the bed and staggered towards the door. Derek remained where he was, and the teenager wondered if he'd move or try and make a point here.

"John, what the hell?" A point, then. John blinked and finally turned his head up so it was level with Derek's face, which was an angered, wondering and...to a certain degree, hurt glare.

Keeping his eyes open was a struggle, but John managed. "Move."

Derek obliged, but that glare on his face persisted. He said nothing. He really didn't have to. _That thing isn't going to do you any favors, _he may as well say. _It wants to trick you!_ John moved past him and started down the hallway. Yeah. Cameron had her problems. Problems came with the package in all Terminators, really. But she wasn't what Derek obviously thought she was. John was getting really fucking sick of his bitching all the time about how terrible _he thought _she was.

When those things got reprogrammed, they fucking stayed reprogrammed. He continued on. It took him about a minute to slog his way through the house, and sometimes he just stopped and stood where he was, eyes shutting tight. What'd she wanna talk to him about, anyway? If she wanted a heart-to-chip (ha ha!), she could do a lot better to ask him on the way to school. Right now he was _fucking beat._

When he came up to the back door he saw Cameron Phillips through the screen window. She was peering at him expectantly but, other than that, John couldn't really tell...anything from her expression. Par for the course, although his tiredness may have had something to do with it. They eyed each other for a few seconds before John pushed open the door. He walked forward a bit and let the screen door bounce gently against him. He folded his arms and laid his head back against the door. Cameron watched him for a while in silence.

It was pretty dark out, although the backstreet behind his house was pretty well illuminated. He couldn't see the shed, nor the tree whose branches hovered over it. A slight glint to the right was probably the swing-set, which had since been converted into a chin-up pole for his mother. John absently brought his arms tighter around his upper chest and bit his lip to stop his teeth from chattering. It was rather cold, even here, so close to the inside of the house. The effect was greater, actually, since he_ was_ so close, enough so that he'd notice the chill more abundantly. It dispelled a bit of his tiredness, too, which he looked upon with a mixture of gladness and despair.

The wind-chimes were busily clanging against one another; it was pretty windy. John wished he had his hoodie jacket on, but he'd left it out on the roof of the jeep to cool. Neglecting its toastiness now seemed rather silly to him. He was shaking a bit, actually, like he was hyper, or something. Ants in the pants. Cameron was staring at him, sure, but not in her usual way. It was the eyes. They were usually huge, and now they were much smaller, more concealed. It was an effort on her part, and that alone made the whole scene feel incredibly furtive to him. And sensual, sort of. God, he was turned on by the strangest shit.

He turned his head over to her and let his shoulders sag a bit, "Hey, Cam."

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

Without replying, John raised his left hand and outstretched his arm. Cameron backed away slightly to avoid his touch, or perhaps to avoid touching _him._ It shocked him, and all thoughts of sex dropped straight out of his mind, replaced with more...more...That was shocking. Not in the drop-jaw sort of way, but... He blinked and turned his head down again.

"I'm...good," he said, half whispering, "Tired."

Why was he tearing up?

"Were you about to go to sleep?"

John sniffled absently and tried to pass it off as...whatever, allergies? Runny nose? Something. "Yeah, but it's fine. What's up?"

Cameron made a "come-hither" gesture. John lingered at the door, frowning for a few seconds, before stepping forward. Things were changing with her, he realized. A lot was changing. "Cam, what's up?"

She back stepped a bit more until they were down the tiny steps that led up to the porch. They were drenched in darkness here. "Why do you call me 'Cam,' John?" It wasn't an idle question. It was calculated, premeditated.

Reflex answer; "I don't know." He made it sound casual, when he felt as if he was gonna start crying, and he hated the lie. Just being alone with her again filled his head with those thoughts. All of it, their recent interactions. It just...all came flowing back. It was strange. He wasn't sad because he loved. He was sad because he loved _her._ And "_her"_ had a lot of meaning packed into it, a lot of fright. Was it love, though? Was it really? This was all like a puzzle that continually resurfaces. And John was procrastinating in solving it. He felt _something_ for her. He wasn't sure if it was love. He was reluctant to think about the word "love." It was strange.

Cameron nodded. It was strange. She was aware of this as well. Had to be. And she...what did she think of it? John ached to know. At times he envied her her machine intellect, her clarity of mind. How did she view this? It didn't occur to him how similar they were, though. A mind and a chip. Artificial intelligence is still intelligence, and emotion was "part" of her "programming." There were times when he was positive that she was guiding all of this. Like she wanted it. It was strange.

God. How much of this could he handle in one night? How many vows had he made today? To help her? To hate her? There were times when he was shocked that he didn't drink coffee, or smoke gratuitously, due to all of this stress, this...uncertainty. And here he was all wrapped in his own little self-analyzing world. Again. Let's get back.

"What's up?" he said. He was blinking pretty randomly, and she could probably see that. Maybe she knew why.

Her head cocked to the left, gesturing to the shed. "We won't have our 'talk' tonight, will we?"

Odd. Now she sounded as hopeful as he did in wanting to avoid it. But only for now. He wasn't sca...well, yes he was, damnit.

"No," John said. "Sorry."

"It's alright. I wanted to at least resolve one thing for you, though. This way." She started off in the direction of the shed. Her body had melted away into the darkness for a few seconds before she realized he wasn't with her.

John stared after her. What the fuck? --don't think "_fuck_"-- "Cameron?" He spread his hands, questioning without speaking. Ohhh boy, if she wanted to _do something_ in there --and how blunt!-- then she could just forget it.

"Yes?"

"What are we...I mean, what-"

She actually chuckled. It didn't even frighten him, it seemed so natural. "Not that, John."

How easily they knew. Considered. Thought about? Yes... He didn't want to think about it right now, though. That was the scariest shit, actually. More scary than Cameron displaying emotions around him, or speaking differently when they were alone, how she acted...It was more scary than his inner musings about her. Maybe because it was so overt, like a monster in your closet. You could hear it slithering around in there, turning your clothes over and around. Rustling. You could think about sex real easy with a pretty woman, and John did, more easily than anything else. That was why it was scary.

He started off behind her, hoping she wasn't lying. He couldn't stop his teeth from chattering now, but that was alright. He wasn't worried about that. He felt for all the world like he was following a siren, having just been seduced. It was unfair to her, really, to think this. Her intentions were probably more enigmatic than that. They walked, together, over to the shed and stopped a few feet away from it. In front of the tree.

He was open-minded. So he opened his mind here and now. How curious, yes!...God, what was going on...?

A flashlight beam suddenly seemed to stab out from Cameron's right hand. John blinked in mild surprise (and relief) and looked over to where the strobe ended.

**Дмайтри Шипков Мария Шипков**

John started, letting out a small gasp. He'd...forgotten all about this. The stones. Written...in Cyrillic, it seemed.

"I put these here," Cameron said a second later. John already knew that, but..."They're graves."

John whirled to her. "What?! Who...who'd you kill? Who's buried here?!" All poignancy fell out from him, like a wet cardboard box releasing its contents from the bottom. What the _fuck_, man?! This wasn't...why...oohhh. Here he was getting mad, _great._ _Her fault!_

"Nobody," she said. "Physically, nobody." She walked over to the graves and shined the light down on the first one, "Dmitri Shipkov," she translated. To the second, "Maria Shipkov."

He leaned back against the tree. All the anger drained from him as abruptly as it had entered his system. He tilted his head down against his chest. "You left them to die," he said, remembering their conversation from earlier in the day. His voice was distant, lost in that reminiscing. This was much deeper than what he'd previously been considering about this situation. So much deeper. "You felt bad."

"Yes."

"And you buried them. Placed grave markers."

A nod from her, invisible to him. He knew it, though. "I felt like they should be remembered. For helping us. I'm sorry I left them, John, really."

It was...Uncle Bob all over again. She was beginning to respect life. _Human_ life. It was both tragic and beautiful at the same time. He didn't feel happy though. They were dead, and it was Cameron's fault. And yet...still. She remembered them. They weren't merely a statistic in her mission profiling, in after-action reports, they were people. Had been people. She remembered them. She placed stones for _them._ Would she place stones for the mafioso's she'd killed? Was she capable of making distinctions, as Derek and Sarah were able, between good humans, worth remembering, and bad ones? He didn't want to ask her.

"I can't believe it," John said quietly. Cameron made a slight questioning sound. John shook his head, "I mean, I'm just surprised is all. This is..."

"It's my letter to them," Cameron said. And so things go full circle. That conversation they had at school. Looking at Jordan Cowan's memorial, be-strewn with flowers, teddy bears, and...letters. "It's immortal." She must feel so proud of herself.

He couldn't speak. That was alright, though. He'd cried a lot today. What was once more? She remembered them. Appreciated their lives.

"I knew you'd appreciate it, John."

He nodded. Smiled, tearfully, "I wonder what mom'd think."

"I extrapolate that she would find it disconcerting. Her suspicion of me would only increase as she'd consider possible ulterior motives for my doing this." She looked at him, "I knew you'd appreciate it, though."

Was she doing it for herself or for him? Both, likely. It was alright. John couldn't blame her. He _did_ appreciate it.

"Let's go back inside," he said.

"Alright."

He got up and walked forward, over to Cameron. She stayed where she was until he reached her, and they started off toward the back door. When they were about half-way there, he stopped. She stopped too. He turned to her and kissed her on the cheek. She was warm. He could feel her breath on his face. It was beautiful. Deception, yes...but still. Pulled away within a second.

"Thank you," he said. He was still crying a bit, but it was alright. He felt alright. Better, in fact.

Cameron stared at him, eyes wide and suddenly analyzing. She was taking it in, the sudden dearth of data he'd just "transmitted." She would commit it to visual, tactile, and emotional memory. So she'd be able to use it later. Her face didn't suddenly transform. It softened first from that look of surprise and analyzation. Her eyes just descended. Her mouth went from hard set to just smiling. Lips turned upward gradually. Still learning. It was alright. They could leave it, all of this, at that kiss. For now.

"You're welcome," she said softly.

They continued on towards the porch and ascended the steps. Went inside. He didn't see Derek or Sarah as he went to his room. Cameron went off to do her thing. Keeping them safe. And learning.

When John went inside his room, he closed the door, and locked it behind him.

Author's Note: I'm gonna begin immediately on the next part. As usual, I felt a good ending had been giving to this scene, so I decided to leave it at that. Hope you enjoyed.


	18. Seek, Part Two

**Flight is Right**

Chapter Eighteen: Seek, Part Two

Disclaimer: The events depicted in this story are fictional and have no basis in actual events.

Wednesday was the turning point of the week. If everything was going poorly for you in the first half, you could still come out on top with the days you had left, which were equal in sum to the days which were bad. And if you _really_ wanted to get ahead of the game, Wednesday was the perfect day to do it. So far it looked as if Special Agent James Ellison's Wednesday would _not_ be one of those Wednesdays. In fact, he was assuredly positive that the entire week, and many of the weeks following, would be particularly bad for him. He didn't have anything concrete on which to base that feeling, although this Wednesday had certainly started off with a bang. It was just that, a feeling. A feeling which was coupled by the knowledge that, in less than four years time...

It really didn't do thinking about. How he had _doubted_, though. And to a certain degree, he still doubted. But with every day, with more and more evidence, it simply seemed more likely that Sarah Connor had been telling the truth all along. It was the hand that got him down this road. The hand of God. Of a Terminator. Not really God at all, then, for he was sure such a thing was not even possible. More like...a demon. But a hand it was, and real it was. Could have been a prosthetic, of course. And wouldn't you know it, it fit _so well_ with Sarah Connor's descriptions. He'd perused her file almost obsessively for the past few weeks ever since she'd returned, and it just matched. Ellison was not a man who believed in coincidences. He was a man who believed in plans, in fate. It was entirely possible that the epiphany he was having was, in fact, guided by the hand of the Lord. To set him on the straight path. It fit _so well, _you couldn't deny that.

It was, then, the system that caused him to persist in his doubt. His professional mindset, the need to eliminate all possibilities before beholding the truth. _Maybe_ it was a (very coincidental) prosthetic. _Maybe_ Sarah Connor really was crazy. _Maybe_ James wasn't becoming involved in something bigger than he alone. He couldn't really know unless he had hard, irrevocable proof, no matter what his personal feelings told him to believe. On a level that was not guided by professionalism nor feeling, James privately hoped he would never hear about Sarah Connor ever again, nor of a coming nuclear catastrophe guided by an artificial intelligence.

But that was impossible. It was so impossible, in fact, that James sincerely believed he'd hear the name "Sarah Connor" at least once today. Because today he was being called in along with every other investigator the Los Angeles government could get their hands on to go to the Checkers Hilton Hotel in downtown. They were calling the events there that happened "probable gang warfare amid civilians;" in more blunt terms, at least fourteen people were dead, with almost as many injured. The police department was still trying to sort out the civilian casualties from the thugs, who were most likely Russian mobsters. Greta Simpson was gonna have a field day; gangs were her "beat", as it were. Damages were still coming in. A lot of spent shell casings, one trashed elevator, several trashed rooms (one more than a few others) and several grenades had been set off. It was all a mess, and the entire block around the hotel had been cordoned off. Ellison was also given to understand that not all of the residents had been evacuated. He wouldn't have been surprised in the least if this had at least something to do with Sarah Connor.

Currently he was riding in an LAPD patrol cruiser along with Officer Garcia Santos, a hispanic lower-rung policeman who'd been selected to escort him here. James didn't really see the use in it; he was certainly capable of driving a car by himself, but this would obviously get him in quicker. Coupled with the fact that he'd been told that he was one of the last people they'd called, he was only too eager to accept the police escort. That sort of thing bit at him, though. Little details like "just take the car, you're one of the last people they called and they ain't allowing people in there for much longer." It only exacerbated all the rumors he'd heard that they were considering putting him out to pasture. What could you do, though?

Gang warfare or not, life in Los Angeles continued on uninhibited. Traffic was predictably horrendous as commuters rushed to make it to their workplaces on time, which wasn't helped by the police cordon a few blocks away. Santos turned to him a little bit after they got stalled and said, "Might take a while, chief."

"Agent," James corrected. He hated patronizing titles almost as much as he hated being called "Jim." Santos grunted and didn't comment, turning back to the wheel.

"Have you been in there yet?" Ellison asked.

"In front of it, sure. Who wasn't? I haven't actually been in there, though; they left all of that to S.W.A.T."

"Of course. You take in any of the guys they arrested?"

Santos nodded eagerly, looking pleased to have at least someone to talk to. Ellison had been admittedly quiet through-out the trip, lost in his inner musings. He'd doubled up his Bible-group reading sessions in the past few days, but how could you dispel thoughts such as the ones he was having? You couldn't. "Sure, two of em'. They were speaking Russian, my partner tells."

Ellison asked him to describe them.

"Basically smartly dressed. Basically caricatures for your basic mobster. Rolling in their dough and dressing themselves up like penguins until this shit happens."

James chuckled, "Crime pays, but only for a little while. Did you happen to notice anything that'd been confiscated?"

"Mostly guns. Automatics and firearms."

Ellison paused for a moment, wondering how he should word this; "Anything...out of the ordinary?"

Officer Santos laughed, "Well, you don't see 'domestic terrorism' on the news every day, chief, so the whole situation's pretty out of ordinary." That was answer enough in itself, so Ellison dropped the subject. He didn't expect Santos to know much more than what he'd told him. Ten minutes and four blocks later was how long it took for them to reach the cordon, resplendent in "POLICE LINE - DO NOT CROSS" tape and cruisers. A little further away, James could see an S.W.A.T. van. Several officers manning the blockade directed Santos' car to the curb. James cast a glance up towards the some twelve story building as he opened the right-hand door. The only signs that a pitched gun battle had taken place inside were several blown out windows, most of which were on the second floor. Trails of smoke emanated from only one of them.

Law enforcement officials of every breed were milling about at the foot of the hotel, all too preoccupied with their duties to take notice of one last FBI agent stepping onto the scene. Except one. Special Agent Greta Simpson must have had eyes on the back of her head, for she turned around from what she'd been doing (talking to...someone, it seemed. Likely civilian) and sent a wry smirk in Ellison's direction. James would be lying if he said the woman was his best friend, but they had a decent rapport as far as professional discourse went. She had a snarky attitude that made her somewhat unbearable at times, but she was a competent agent, and he respected her for that. They got along well enough sometimes, he supposed. Not much of a religious gal, though.

"They really are pulling out all the stops," she said as he approached. Behind him, Officer Santos started to fumble with a cigarette lighter. Ellison dismissed him and turned back to his colleague.

"Only natural response after...what'd they call it? Domestic terrorism?" He smiled.

Greta frowned, "Point taken. Unfortunately, I doubt Osama was behind this. Seems more like Vladimir Putin, actually."

"Very funny. Russian mob?"

"Seems that way, although I'd be damned if I could tell you why they decided to shoot off close to a thousand rounds of ammunition."

Ellison gestured with his index finger and started forward into the hotel, dodging past a few officers and paramedics. Greta told her charge (a young brunette woman) to stay put and followed him. As they walked into the lobby, which was strangely pristine he said, "In other words, you don't know who they were fighting."

"Not a clue. There was way too many of them for this to be a regular mob hit, too."

"How many is 'too many'?"

"I'd wager a guess at around twenty five in all, counting the dead ones."

"Certainly not their finest hour," Ellison said. "How are the interrogations going?"

Greta shrugged, "Either they don't speak English, or they're refusing to talk."

_Great._ "And civilians?"

"I was dealing with that one outside before you showed up."

"She have anything interesting to say?"

Another shrug, this time indifferent, "She said she was on the top floor when it happened."

James nodded. "Well, that's just fine, then. Another case that makes no sense."

"It _will_ make sense in due time, Ellison. Just because you have a bad feeling doesn't mean Sarah Connor's involved."

Ellison did not grace that comment with a response, no matter how true it was. Greta rolled her eyes at his silence and said, "How's the leg?"

"Healing," James said, gesturing toward the elevator shafts as he walked past them. A particularly overzealous cop had covered one of the doors with yellow tape, "Whoever was here certainly got busy."

"They picked up a corpse in there," Greta noted idly. Ellison made a questioning sound. She said, "I saw him myself. Shot above the right eye, looked like a bystander."

"That's a pretty accurate shot against an innocent 'bystander'," Ellison said. "You sure it wasn't deliberate?"

Greta spread her hands, "What do you want from me, James? I'm not clairvoyant. He didn't have a gun and doesn't look Russian, that's all I can tell you."

James waved his hand. "There is no question that is not worth asking," he said. "Anything else?"

Greta snapped her fingers, looking happy to forget James' conspiracy peddling (or so she believed,) "I almost forgot. Someone overran the security office shortly before the shooting started and wiped out the hotel's records."

Well, well... "They get a description of the assailants?"

"Uh huh. A guy and a woman. More to the point, a boy and a girl. They were described as young, probably mid-teens. Can't do anything for their faces, though, they were wearing masks."

James nodded. In a way, he agreed with Simpson. He shouldn't jump to wild conclusions just because a ghost from the past saved his life, but all of what had transpired seemed, to him, to fit in with Connor's typical M.O. Most of the dead were blatantly Russian mob, which was frankly bizarre, as gang violence tended to leave casualties on both sides. And wiping out records with the help of teenagers? Obviously there wasn't enough evidence gathered yet to make a firm statement on what had transpired, but he was damned if he couldn't draw his own conclusions. He'd have to follow this closely, and he fully expected not to get a lot of sleep in the next couple of days.

"They get blood samples yet?"

Greta blinked, "Looking for more fake blood, then? Yeah. They were up all night getting the stuff down to the labs."

"Anything else? They found nothing out of the ordinary?"

"Besides this whole situation? No, not really."

"Nothing at all?" said James, turning back to face her. His eyes, almost pleading. Hoping. "LAPD's checked the whole hotel?"

Simpson shook her head, "Nothing, James. Sorry."

Damn. "Alright, where do they need us?"

Greta explained what was needed of the FBI here. Ellison listened with only half an ear, disturbed with the fact that, for the first time in his entire life, he was hoping that a bad situation turned out to be even worse than it seemed.

--

_Earlier._

He thought he was dreaming as he came awake. He thought he was dreaming because he heard music. It was practically right on top of him, filling him. He thought it was ambient, as though he was in a film. He felt languid, like he was emerging from water. More pointedly, he felt like he was drunk, except without the depressant effect. The world was wobbling, and his eyes were closed.

Slowly at first...building. A woman began to sing. The pitch changed, became more jubilant. Sweeping.

_"Nobody can tell ya...there's only one song worth singin'... They may try and sell ya, cause it hangs them up...to see someone like yoo-o-o-ou!"_

John Connor opened his eyes. They darted back and forth, briefly. Cursory. Fabric in front of him, soft. His face was pressed against it. It was a pillow. His eyes flickered and he turned his head to the side, feeling across his body, neurons sending reports. His arms were splayed out in front of him, along his side. Blanket was only half on, half-trailing to the floor. The sun peeped through the window, as though reluctant. It had risen only recently. John blinked and kept his eyes firmly open. He brought his left hand up and rubbed his forehead, which was damp.

_"...But you gotta-a-a make your own kind of music! Si-i-ing your own special so-o-o-ong!"_

Pushed locks of hair away from his eyes. He ran the hand up and down across his scalp, pressed down a few wayward cowlicks and turned to the alarm clock. **5:30 A.M.**. He'd slept since eight at night. He felt alright. Most sleep he'd gotten all week. He turned himself over in the bed and flopped his head back against the pillow, sighing. He stared across the room. The door was open. It'd been unlocked. That was ok. Nothing seemed out of place. No thieves in the house, though. None he was aware of, anyway. Derek might occasionally steal a razor, he knew that. Not really steal anyway. Borrow. Whatever.

_"Ma-a-ake your own kind of music! Even if nobody else sings aloooong!"_

Anyway, it was fine. Still a bit dark out, but that'd clear up shortly. He settled his head for a moment, soaking up the comfort the bed provided in a spare second's time. Then, reluctantly, pushed himself up. He stretched his arms and felt satisfying cracks as the stiffness from sleep was dispelled. Same thing for his legs. He got up. Took in a huge, gapping yawn. Alright. He walked --plodded, really-- a few feet into the middle of his room. Fell back to the ground, deliberately, harshly. He whipped his head back and cracked his neck once, twice, left and right. Ten pushups. Sweated a bit, but that was fine. He needed to wake up.

_"You're gonna be no where...the loneliest kind of lonely...It may be rough going...just to do your thing, the hardest thi-i-ing to do-o-o-o..."_

He knew this song. His mothers parent's had loved it and passed it on to their child. His mother loved it. He didn't know what it was called. He couldn't place the singer. She'd told him once. He finished with the pushups and switched to crunches. Ten once more, banged out flat. He smelled something cooking. Bacon, likely. It was easy to make, or so his mother told him. He knew how to do it himself, anyway. He scrambled up from the floor. Ran a hand down his chest, looking like he was about to recite a speech. Or confess. To who? Whatever. The world was realigned. He was still a little drowsy. Time for a shower, that'd _really_ wake him up. He got clothes together from the drawers and absently reminded himself to clean this place up when he got home. It was getting messy as hell.

_"But you've gotta...make your own kind of music! Sing your own special song! Make your own kind of music, even if nobody else sings along!"_

Yesterday he'd kissed Cameron. On the cheek. A clear sign of affection. He liked the robot, his protector, the guardian. The single entity in the house who would, quite literally, never stop until he or she was dead. It was a technicality. Sarah could be shot in the leg and rendered immobile. Cameron would just shrug it off. She'd never stop. And he liked her. Above the relationship between general and bodyguard. A bit more intimate than brother and sister. They couldn't really be like that. They also really couldn't be considered people who loved each other. Romantically. They both understood the implications behind that. One more implicitly than the other, perhaps. John wasn't sure who that was. They were in flux. Still undecided. That kiss had been somewhat conclusive. It wasn't concrete, though.

_"So if you cannot take my ha-a-a-nd...and if you must be goin'...I will understa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-and!"_

Mama Cass, 1969. "Make your own kind of music." That was it. He was glad he'd remembered. He stepped out into the hall scratching, absently, a light stubble on his chin. He'd have to shave. Maybe he could leave it in for now. No one would notice. He peered down the hall. Steam a bit further down, billowing from the kitchen. He could hear his mother singing along, out of tempo. He smiled, barely swallowing a laugh.

_"You gotta...make your own kind of music! Sing your own special so-o-ong! Make your own kind of music, even if nobody else sings alooong!"_

New day. Finally. Cameron Phillips passed him as he sauntered into the bathroom. She looked at him, but he didn't really notice. She continued on into the kitchen without a word, nothing. John grabbed a towel and turned on the water, occasionally adjusting the dial to make the temperature just right. Eventually he stepped inside and let the steam wake him up. Start to. Anyway.

_"You gotta...make your own kind of music! Sing your own special song..."_ It trailed off into nothingness, and John stepped out of the shower briefly to close the door. Dodged seeing Derek Reese come out of the adjoining hallway without either realizing it. Solitary now, he laid his head back against the tiled wall, shutting his eyes. Semi-pressurized water cascaded against his head and slashed down onto the floor of the tub. He barely noticed. He started to hum what bits of the music he could remember.

Meanwhile, Derek briefly jiggled the handle and turned his head toward the door. Running water. Meh. He could either wait or put paid to modesty and charge right in. Ask him, maybe, about what went on last night. A grin played over his face for a moment, only to be lost within a second more. He'd wait. It was a new day. He might as well start it off right.

He turned from the door and nearly walked into Cameron. Both of them shrank back when it seemed like they were about to touch. She was staring at him again. That was a-ok. He could stare too. He did. They locked eyes for several seconds in silence, until Sarah restarted whatever it was she'd been playing. Derek hated it. He hated music when it sounded this happy, this hopeful. What did they have to be so jubilant over?

He didn't move. Only his mouth; "What did you two do yesterday?"

Cameron was silent for a moment. Derek had a few trace ideas, none of which he was particularly thrilled with. He hadn't thought John really gave the Terminator much thought other than naive protection of her "character." But Derek had been wrong. There was something more here. Perhaps something had happened last night.

"I was wishing him good night."

"Hilarious."

Cameron cocked her head. Derek grunted and waved a hand, "Hilarious. That he thinks you care."

"I _do_ care. John Connor is my objective. I must protect him from harm, both physical as well as psychological."

"There you go, saying 'Connor.' Like he means nothing to you personally. It's cute to see you act like this."

The Terminator raised a single eyebrow. "Stop being a douche bag."

Derek reached over slightly, touching her shoulder. He formed a scythe with his cupped hand and dug it into her shoulder blade in sudden, grim ferocity. She stared over at the hand, fascinated. Derek reckoned he could feel the metal underneath if he felt enough, probed enough. _Stabbed enough._ "You don't even know what that means."

"A jerk, a dim-witted person, a moron, one who can be considered an 'asshole,'-"

He withdrew his hand and jabbed a finger at her face, hovering just an inch from her right eye-ball. The iris refocused on the tip of his finger. She didn't blink, she looked almost amused by this. If he jammed it... "Stay away from him. You know what I mean?"

"Yes. I know what you mean," she said tonelessly.

"Fuck you, machine. Goddamnit." He whipped his hand down and stalked off into the kitchen. She stared off after him and then resumed her patrol of the house.

_"But you've gotta...make your own kind of music! Sing your own..."_

--

"Eggs would be nice occasionally."

"I always crack the eggs the wrong way."

John rolled his eyes as he grabbed the plate of pancakes and bacon out of Sarah Connor's hand. "You handle them like grenades," he said, taking a seat at the table. Light had fully dawned outside, albeit with a measure of grayness tinting the suns otherwise constant brilliance. Derek sat across from him, absently poking a pancake with one fork.

"Not hungry?" John said. The guy ate like a horse even on a bad day.

Derek ran his eyes over John for a moment and said, "You forget to shave today?"

John sighed and started in on his breakfast, his wet hair initially obstructing his view of the food. There was no music playing. John was puzzling over whether or not he ought to mention it, but it wasn't too big a deal to him. He was trying to remember what homework he should have had done for today. They'd been given essay topics in history, pertaining to Reconstruction. John didn't know when they were due. Maybe it was today. His math teacher also gave homework every day, even on Friday, but didn't penalize for absences. The list went on. He felt he was in pretty good shape, overall. He'd focus on history while on the bus. He had a few ideas for writing.

"How was the LAPD database?" Sarah asked from the stove. She was making stuff for herself. John liked to think that hers tasted better, but she was basically a uniformly terrible cook. Not that he really noticed anymore.

"Un-hacked," he said around downing a piece of bacon.

"Not what I wanted to hear," she said sternly. As though to complete the motherly effect, she laid a hand on her hip and tilted her head to the side. John found it more creepy than authoritative.

He swallowed, "Mom, I was tired as hell last night, gimme a break."

Derek and Sarah sent each other a barely recognizable look, one that John mistook for Derek merely turning his head in to listen.

"You're bringing your laptop to school, then."

John expected that. It didn't mean he was thrilled; "I _do_ have homework, you know."

Sarah turned back to her son and raised her eyebrows in mock apology. John helplessly giggled and shook his head, "Alright, alright." He could manage another day of multi-tasking, he guessed.

"Turn on the news," said Derek. John pressed the chair up on one leg and rotated around, stabbing the power button on the television set. It was set to some channel that played reality television shows. Rolling his eyes at Cameron's efficiency, John switched it to KTLA. A familiar sight greeted him. He watched the screen and heard Derek lean in. A woman with strawberry hair was talking a few blocks away from the Hilton hotel, which was featured prominently at the center left of the picture.

"-governor Gray Davis has not commented on the situation thus far and so far no link has been given to international terrorism. From where I'm standing there has been no official word given on the nature of these attacks, nor the amount of dead and injured. Patrol cars who reached the building as early as last night still have not departed yet, and those that _do _leave quickly return."

"So much for staying off the radar," John said dryly. Sarah sniffed audibly as the reporter continued to dole out information. "How many _did_ you guys shoot, anyway?" asked John.

Sarah peered over at Derek, but the resistance fighter was staring at the scene in grim silence. The screen split down the middle for a moment to reveal a news anchor as well as the reporter.

"Flannery, have you spoken to anyone who was inside the hotel at the time? We understand here at the studio that there was, uh, quite an exodus following the gunfire."

Flannery was silent for a moment, obviously still listening to the message, and suddenly said, "I have, Alex. I spoke with at least two people, both of whom refused to be named, and I wasn't able to secure video footage. Sorry."

"That's alright, can you tell us what they said?"

"The first one, a woman, told me that all she heard was gunfire and she quickly left. I believe she was, uh, the receptionist."

"She was pretty cute," John commented with a smirk. Sarah smacked the side of his head, which only made her son laugh mischievously.

"The second witness I spoke with commented that she noticed a suspicious looking man on the ninth floor, and that she was present for most of the shooting. She made her escape as soon as she was sure it was over."

"Sounds harrowing," Alex said, looking predictably concerned. Derek had leaned back suddenly in his chair, his eyes unmoving and distant. Sarah laid a hand on John's shoulder and said, "You'd best get going."

"Right," he said, finishing a pancake and pushing the plate away. He turned to his uncle, "You alright, Derek?"

"Yep." He smirked. "It just dawned on me that I'm gonna have to watch this shit all day."

John peered at his mother. She smirked, "You've taken two bullets this month, and we _don't_ want three to be the charm. You're staying here today."

Derek waved a resigned hand and said nothing. John, deciding everything was all hunky-dory, got up from the table and seized his backpack from the corner of the room. He made a quick stop at his room to get his laptop and trekked back over. Today was looking to be boring. Chances were they'd make their next move tomorrow when he'd found everything out, courtesy of the LAPD. After this week, John was more than willing to accept a brief respite of boring.

"Alright, anything else?" he said.

Sarah shook her head, "Nope. Have fun at school."

"I'll try, anyway. Where's Cameron?"

"I'm behind you."

"Christ!"

"Sorry."

--

**Preliminary analysis of lesson. (REF: analytical study of compositional degradation. Formal sitref: chemistry.)**

**...**

**Finished. Irrelevancies detected. Subject material covered in files #112567 to #390246, broad spectrum. Possibility of instructor sub-prime engaging unit in lesson-oriented interrogation stands at 12 percent. Acceptable. Switching to organic "shallow" infiltration procedure. Parsing sub-prime auditory sweep, degree angular 360. **

"-assume you all already know the difference between igneous and sedimentary rock, so-"

"-don't want him to hear us, but real quick-"

"-dude, think she's taken already?"

"You don't stand a chance."

"Aw, c'mon."

**Likelihood of conversational object centralized towards unit stands at 57 percent. Record.**

"What about her brother? He whupped some kid's ass the other day."

**Likelihood of conversational object centralized towards unit stands at 99 percent. Progressive record.**

"That's just a rumor."

"I saw it happen."

_Intervention by prime subject; _"I can hear you, y'know."

_ten second interval._

Cameron smiled.

_Sub-prime intervention (sitref: Cheri Westin); _"Dicks."

"Don't worry about them."

_five second interval. _**Minimize auditory sweep. Degree angular 50. Record.** **Parse information for possible enamorment versus unit 63578 & prime ...**

**end procedure. restart. Record. Perform mandatory self-diagnostic in one hour. Centralize and **_**analyze**_** source of unit behavioral error and add to category sitref: "Prime relations towards unit."**

Cameron briefly laid a hand on her head and bowed it slightly onto the desk. After a moment, she pulled herself back up and resumed listening. The teacher said something.

**Situational analysis: collaborative assignment. Carbon paper based. Immediate response: neglect. **

They'd talk rather freely now. Cameron was eager to listen.

_restore lost data. analyze later. continue record._

"So how's it going, Cheri?"

"I'm fine. Are you ok?"

_two second interval_

"Oh, sure. You talk to Steven?"

"Yeah, that Kester guy showed up at his house yesterday. Just walked away, though."

_five second interval. _**Alert: Pose query to prime upon completion of studies: Identify "Kester?"**

"Oh."

"You sure you're ok?"

"Yeah, totally. You know how to do this problem?"

"No. Leave it blank for now."

"How's Michael?...Uh, that's sudden. Sorry. Lemme-"

"He's ok. Nose is healing."

She could feel them staring at each other. Cameron turned her head ever so slightly to take in their individual forms, sitting on the stools. She openly laid her head down upon the surface of her lab table and kept one eye fixed on John and Cheri. Her expression was a cross between indifference and...a scowl. John's mouth was hanging slightly open. A clear indication of awkwardness. He didn't know what he should say. Cheri was curious, although a regular person would be hard pressed to tell that from her apathetic countenance.

"What's he like?" he asked. He couldn't keep the softness out of his voice, Cameron noted. The man he would grow to be was much better at regulating his tones. Although that was a desirable trait, this "version" of John had vulnerabilities that made him...endearing.

Cheri, easily aware of said tone, smiled briefly, as though she were privy to some secret. Perhaps she was. Cameron did not like secrets. "What are you asking?"

John repeated his question, using more pointed, urgent inflection. Cheri immediately asked him why. A mental nod from Cameron at this point. That was efficient of Cheri. Still, finding out information on Michael Oxferod was important. If John failed to coax anything out of her, Cameron would simply intercept Cheri herself.

"I'm just curious."

A pause from Cheri. She couldn't honestly answer him after a "cop-out" like that.

Then again, Cameron's knowledge of human conversation was _still _rather limited; "I guess you have a right to, anyway." They both chuckled, albeit sarcastically, "He's...uh, driven. Stubborn. He doesn't let things go too easily."

"Tell me something I don't know." John said sardonically. "Do you, uh..."

Cheri didn't look up from her paper, "We're not involved, John. He's my brother."

"What?"

"_Foster_ brother, anyway. He prefers his real last name."

Silence from John as he processed this. Cameron did a brief extrapolation and was somewhat surprised to see a 50 percent chance of Cheri lying in this matter. Give or take a few points, but it obviously wasn't clear-cut. Cameron had no doubt that John was going through a similar thought-process, albeit in a way that was altogether less...efficient than her method.

"Oh," was all John said. This unveiled a few opportunities for him. Cameron could see that. She did not like it. She could see him struggling, trying to reconcile his and Cheri's past grievances in a way that would not come off as trying to form a romantic bond between them. And yet, wasn't that what he wanted? Cameron realized that there were reasons for this. She didn't understand any of them, in spite of her vast computing power. Given the proper time and allowance to her CPU, she could probably learn much more about all of this. As it stood...she was left to make these clumsy, often inarticulate gestures to John. She hurt him often. Sometimes she just made him uncomfortable. It troubled her.

There was a silence between them. Both were wondering what they ought to say, no doubt. This gave Cameron some small comfort. It let her know that even machines weren't fully at a loss when it came to human rituals such as this. She wondered why she cared.

"I'm sorry about Monday," John murmured. Efficient, if not entirely tactful. Cheri looked at him, as though waiting for a justification. When she found none forthcoming, she smiled lightly.

"It's ok," she said. Her right hand darted forward slightly and clasped around John's left hand. She nodded twice. John grinned openly at her and looked around at the classroom. A brief facial mapping (unnecessary) revealed that he was feeling a strong measure of relief. He was glowing, practically. Cameron switched to heat-vision scanning. Went back to full-color HUD almost immediately, her eyes widening somewhat in both rage and distaste.

**Query to system: SKYNET-TOK-715-MODEL 121 5563& (SYSTEM ALERT:TECH-COM. OVERRIDE PREVIOUS COMMAND.)**

Well, what was _that_ about? Cameron absently picked her head up for a moment and performed a quick self-diagnostic to check the nature of the command that just went through her. It didn't take long. It was a generic combat procedural power-up, typically employed once a lone unit prepares to terminate an organic. Cameron prepared to trash the stimulus data that had caused this. It was unnecessary. She was silent for a few seconds.

"I'm sorry I've been...icy to you, John."

"Well worth it," John said. She could feel them looking at each other. Cameron terminated the deletion measure. Perhaps the data would be useful sometime in the future. She'd be sure to add this little incident to their upcoming discussion. No more beating around the bush. She'd insist. There was a _snap!_ as the pencil in her fist broke in half.

"Well worth it."

--

"Please insert stolen identification," John said, barely concealing a smirk as he went to work hacking the LAPD database on his laptop. Cameron was sitting across from him, sipping rather loudly from a styrofoam cup. Besides them, the table was bare. John knew Morris would be coming along shortly, so he was trying to hurry it up. As a fall-back, he had a news page minimized. It was about the hotel shootings, of which John noted there'd been no accurate theories yet. He wondered why they were being so close-mouthed about it... Anyway, Morris would probably find it boring enough to not give John's computer a second look, letting him work in peace. His ice-breaker was busily chewing through 1s and 0s at the top portion of the page, decrypting a police ID code. Every minute he had to input an anti-firewall scan code, but that was no big deal. Hacking was more about waiting as things happened than rapid-fire typing.

"Who're you talking to?" Cameron asked.

He smirked openly now, "No one. Just an old joke."

"Oh." Sluuuurp. She didn't _have_ to seem human around him, although it helped. But things like drinking for no reason were...excessive. It was for his benefit.

Progress bar was about half-way now, traveling fast. The system was vulnerable; a lot of data was getting put in, no doubt, because of the hotel. That only made things easier for John. His hands danced across the keyboard once more, ensuring that the LAPD server still thought everything was fine and dandy. No problem here except your standard fare, no sir.

"Who's 'Kester?'"

John's eyes darted away from the computer screen and narrowed in Cameron's general direction. That was all he could do, really. What he _wanted_ to do was slam down the laptop monitor and yell at her, blast her for not respecting his privacy. He wanted to gesticulate wildly, shake a fist. Christ, he thought they'd gotten past this. Some things never fucking changed. John settled on looking faintly annoyed.

"What did I tell you about respecting private conversations?"

Now it was Cameron's turn to look annoyed. Her head bobbed and she seemed to look at him from the top of her eyeballs, like she was looking at something ridiculous and stupid. "It wasn't private. If someone wanted to listen hard enough, they could have easily heard every word."

John frowned and raised a hand, "Are we arguing?"

She tilted her head, "No. We are not arguing. I'm stating a fact."

He waved the hand dismissively, "You're justifying your frickin' snoopiness... Tell me you didn't deliberately listen in. That you just happened to hear us talking."

"We're getting away from the point. Who's Kester?"

The computer screen read "Successful" in ransom font at the top of the page. The rest displayed a familiar amalgam of files and police reports. He was in.

John slammed the laptop monitor down and balled his hand into a fist. He raised it and shook it apoplectically, "I don't give a shit about the _point!_ Stop eavesdropping! It's...it's not right, damnit." He was rubbing a hand over his shoulder as he finished, feeling almost embarrassed at the outburst. He _was_ embarrassed, he could feel his face heating up. He felt as though he'd been caught doing something unmentionable with another girl. And in a way...wasn't that the truth? Cameron was getting fucking jealous, that had to be it. Jealousy! She didn't like seeing he and Cheri hold HANDS? Was she completely...Ooh. Calm down. He was shaking a bit.

Cameron stared at him, her expression going blank. "Sorry."

"Don't do it again." John said. He lifted the laptop monitor back up and started to browse it idly for certain keywords.

Cameron leaned forward, "You need to start learning to give up privacy, John. You will not survive in the future if you respect it."

"Fuck that," he said. He didn't look at Cameron. God, he felt bad, actually. Like he'd been caught, instead of just eavesdropped on. They hadn't said a word about that, but the implications were huge. He could...just tell from her expression. "It's part of why we're fighting. To make sure we never give up things like the right to privacy." The database sported a rudimentary search engine. He rapidly typed in "robot" and leaned back as the server chugged along to accept his request.

"Kester was some FBI guy looking for a kid," John said absently. "That's all."

"It would have been much easier to just tell me that in the first place."

John shook his head sadly. There was a brief, tension-filled silence. Just _say! Say!_ John felt...gah. "You're mad," he said. She was a smart cybernetic organism from the future. She knew what he was talking about.

Cameron's reply was eager, instantaneous; "Yes. I am mad." She turned her head slightly, "Michael Oxferod is coming."

John looked over and stifled a sigh. He peered down at the laptop and frowned. There was a latest entry on the reports database, taken by one generically named "Sergeant Dickens." It was about a Russian mobster prisoner. He'd babbled about a "striding robot", apparently. Made of chrome. Fuckin' a, but right then he really didn't care. Maybe his priorities weren't straight, but he felt _bad._ The robot was mad at him for trying to patch things up with Cheri. _Welcome to the rest of your life,_ he thought. Time to move on with it.

Author's Note: Concluded in the next chapter, which will culminate in an action sequence. I feel very "meh" about this chapter, so tell me what you think.


	19. Mike

**Flight is Right**

Chapter Nineteen: Mike

Author's Note: Well, it looks like this became more of a formal character introduction than anything else. Action in the next chapter. Should be shorter than usual.

It was understandable that almost every eye in the outdoor cafeteria came to rest on John Connor's table when Michael Oxferod, a boy he'd recently walloped two days earlier, sat down there. That it was understandable made it no less uncomfortable, and John fervently continued to examine the page he'd found on the LAPD server, detailing an account by a Russian mobster prisoner they had locked up. Like lasers, those stares penetrated into him. Expectant and waiting. He felt an incredible urge to not disappoint them, to call Mike something awful and see what happened from there. He'd get a few cheers, a few compliments no doubt. Some people would roll their eyes. Others still would ridicule him. Attention was attention, though. For most people it is euphoric effect; whether you necessarily enjoy it or not is another story.

He knew Cheri was watching. Confused, no doubt. John wondered over how much she believed in the foster brother story. It could totally be true, of course. No lying intended, none to be had. Perhaps it hadn't occurred, then, that her foster brother was from the future. Maybe. John was waiting for a yell from some anonymous douchebag in the peanut gallery. Then he'd start burning up. But they'd talk anyway. They had to. He felt Michael's eyes on him too. And Cameron Phillips. Dead silence from the surrounding tables. As experienced gossips, high-school students knew the chain of command in these situations.

He was dizzy all of a sudden and he found that he couldn't focus on the computer screen. He'd read the contents several times by now, of course, but it was no less annoying to him that he wasn't able to see...Christ.

Nothing risked, nothing earned. He sighed and looked up at Michael, blowing a lock of hair out of his eyes. He needed a haircut. Mike was staring at him, unperturbed by...this scene his coming here had caused. He wasn't trying to be normal, of course, like John...or Cameron, even. He was on a mission. He didn't care.

"Hey," John said.

Michael raised his eyebrows and nodded, "Hey there."

Like a domino effect, a gradual, sweeping murmur overcame the immediate tables as the students there fulfilled their roles. It spread outward and it assumed a buzzing, swarming noise of chatter. H'oh boy...Michael ignored it. He was staring at John. Cameron, in a rather odd juxtaposition, turned and glanced around.

John stared evenly back to Michael. A game, then. Always a game. Mike was testing him for...something, anyway. Goddamnit. They locked eyes and maintained a stoney silence as the cafeteria buzzed. If it was a test then John was doing alright. Like Derek, Mike was probably gauging his attention span, seeing how closely he could pay attention. _Always_ a game. They wanted to find assurance, to find the general they'd been familiar with in the boy they were just seeing for the first time. Motherfuckers, really. It was always a game and that was all there was to it. He could take their goddamned tests, see if he didn-

"FIIIIGHT!"

John averted his eyes and bowed his head to avoid Michael seeing him blush. He couldn't help it, couldn't _fucking help it._ He felt like cursing, yelling out horrible words. Damage was done, of course, so it wouldn't make a bit of difference. _Failed! FAILED._ _Motherfucker! _All at once the buzzing stopped and a ripple of laughter carried through the cafeteria. It was their release. They knew nothing was going to happen, the guy yelling was their cue to that very fact. No one ever traded blows after it was specifically requested, of course. It wasn't a fucking restaurant. They went back to their regular beats of conversation, and the irregular staccato of voices dominated once more. John took in a shaky, hurt breath and glowered.

Michael grunted, "Well, anyway." He sounded somewhat pleased.

"You fucking cunt," John said. Failed, damnit. Why did he feel so _terrible?_ Not, not terrible, _not terrible._ Well, yes, he felt embarrassed, sure, but mostly...he just wanted to fucking _hurt _him. Cameron turned back and cocked her head.

Mike narrowed his eyes, his face utterly impassive. There was something there, though. Twitching...at the periphery. Hurt? Was he hurt by that? John hoped he was. He'd be glad if he was. Mike was a kid, like him. He could be touched by such things as words.

John had expected this whole thing to be a lot more professional, actually, then it was turning out to be. But basic things, very basic things, had put an end to that expectation. John's mind flooded with the things he'd felt during the fight on Monday. Surprise. Rage. Hurt. All at once, Michael was a villain again, making him feel like shit. John _wanted _to fight. Like something sensual he felt the _need_ to fight surge through him. If Mike came back at him with a few choice words...

Cameron stopped that, though; "What do you want?" Sure, she was still mad at him about Cheri (_mad..._wow), but at least she was a bit more prudent, anyhow.

Mike turned to her. They eyeballed one another for a while, with Michael just...taking her in. And why? He knew her true nature. John continued to look away, fuming to himself. To think, just yesterday they'd been approaching friendliness with each other. Maybe it was all situational. Maybe it was this place. Kinda funny, when you thought about it, really. And stupid. School, getting him down. Riiight. GOD, what was _wrong_ with him? Mike was a goddamned _resistance_ _fighter _and he was thinking about duking it out because he'd gotten embarrassed by a bunch of shithead kids?!

Calm down!

"To talk," Mike eventually said. "I need to know what you guys are doing." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a more hushed volume; "What your assets are, intelligence, that sort of thing."

Oh, that was _rich. _John looked up, "Why's that? You refuse to tell _us_ anything."

"My mission here is classified," Mike returned.

"What makes it classified?"

Mike pointed at John. He held his finger aloft for a few seconds to let that sink in before lowering the hand. John had nothing to say about that. How could he fricking argue with _himself?_

"You should tell us anyway," Cameron said. She didn't offer any reason for why he should, though, which made Mike's response predictable.

"No."

Cameron stared blandly at him, clearly trying to find the quickest route towards open coercion. Mike went on, "My assignment isn't important, anyway. I'd be helping us more if I just devoted myself to whatever it is you guys are doing."

_Us. _The resistance. Christ, this was deep. Mike was, quite literally, the farthest he could be from his comrades and he was still thinking in terms of being an operative. It sure helped to have a sense of direction, anyhow. And what about Mike wanting to directly help them? It was fuckin' a, but John had no power over that, he had to clear that kind of shit with Sarah and Derek. But wouldn't they just tell him it'd be too risky? That he was untrustworthy? John didn't _love_ the guy, but...

"We're trying to stop the war from happening," he said.

Michael frowned, "How the hell do you intend to do that?"

"Terminate individuals tied to Skynet's genesis," Cameron said, which made John wince absently. Mike, on the other hand, leaned forward, "Make sure artifacts from the future don't fall into the wrong hands, destroy vital equipment and disrupt Skynet's agents in this timeline."

Mike stared as though in awe, "You think you can do all that?"

"We have to," John said. He was nodding a bit more, raising his voice a bit more, generally warming up to Michael a bit more. It really helped to have something to talk about, and how could they run out when discussing the war? Had to strike a balance, anyway. They couldn't go from friendly when professional to hostile when personal like this all the time. They could manage it, John was betting. Hopefully.

Michael nodded at John's simple statement. He was liking this. John could see that. All at once his stoney demeanor had shifted to eagerness. But he'd been through the war, of course. Anything like this had to give a man hope. "How? With who?"

"Lots of guns, lots of explosives, my mom..." John counted off the points on his fingers, smirking a bit at the absurdity of what he was saying. To him, anyhow. To Mike it must be just that. Assets, knowledge. Allies. Christ, John was wondering how he was supposed to become this Grand Military Leader (™) if there were simply more qualified people _around_ him all the goddamned time! Why him! (stop it) He counted off, "...Me, I guess. Cameron, and Derek Reese."

"Derek Thomas Reese?" Mike asked, his eyes narrowing sharply.

"Yeah. You know him?" The future was rapidly resembling the _Cheers _bar, John gathered. He coughed suddenly to strangle a chuckle from coming out, but he couldn't keep a grin from developing as he thought about Terminators and resistance fighters yelling "Norm!" in some-

"I'm in the 132nd S.O.C., and I knew his brother, Kyle, in Century." Michael smiled. "Kyle's a good guy, y'know. Is he here too?"

John tried very hard to keep the lump in his throat from showing as he blinked and said, "No." Good things couldn't _fucking_ stay, eh? _ALWAYS has _to fucking-...

Cameron said nothing. John sighed and laid a fist against his forehead, cradling it. He took a deep, _deep _breath and blinked again.

"Shit, really? What year did Derek come from?"

"2027," said Cameron. John sent a look her way and gave the slightest of nods. _Thank you._

"Christ. They're inseparable, you know," Michael said. "You'd never send them on a mission individually." He looked up at John. His mouth was sort of trembling, preparing.

He knew he was dead, then. John sighed. No fucking way around it; "Except I do. He-...I sent him to 1984 to keep my mother safe. My, uh...h-he was killed making sure she was alright."

Michael gawked, his eyes wide and almost unbelieving. But he _did_ believe. Of course he believed. John was looking away, choosing to focus on some girl's back a few tables down. Not again, god... He'd been _way_ over this before in the past, and he didn't need another sad face sitting there, guilting him, accusing for _ensuring his own fucking existence. _And he couldn't tell _anyone, _not even his own uncle. Fuck, man. At least Mike wasn't screaming at him. The resistance fighter sighed, "Well...I'm glad he died and succeeded... rather than just getting...killed in some ruined building. You know?"

John nodded. If he spoke, he'd...He wouldn't speak. Another guilt trip, that was all he needed. Great, fucking...wonderful. _Why do you focus so much on yourself? You fucking baby. _What about Kyle? Derek? Goddamnit, it _wasn't_ his fault. Not _his_ fault. It was _his_ fault. The bastard general.

Into the silence, Mike said, "You did what you had to do."

It was both a simple phrase and a prophecy. He _would do_ what he'_d have to_ do. And how would he handle that? Would he...aw, it didn't bear thinking about. Not yet. You only consider those things when you're alone. Or when you have a drink close at hand. Since John was a minor, he thought about it alone. Just forget it for now. He nodded towards Michael and let out a hitching sigh. All the emotion he'd release right now. He'd forget about it soon. Didn't need this all the time, being...reminded of this sort of shit. Guilt upon guilt. Growing guilt, growing like a fungus inside of him. He refused to think about _that_ guilt. He could think about Kyle. Consider it. He wouldn't like it, and often it tore him up. But he could take it.

He couldn't take _that_ guilt. The guilt that compelled him to consider running. Flight. _No._ Don't think about it right now. Forget about Kyle, and furthermore, get _that_ guilt out of your head right now.

He'd forget. Or ignore. Whichever. _Focus and concentrate. _He felt fucking spent, having lurched from one emotional extreme to another and yet another in the past five minutes. He wouldn't be like this if he didn't _think_ so much. If he just walked around barking orders and kicking ass and chewing bubble gum it would be so much easier, damnit.

"What have you been able to do?" Mike asked, obviously seeing that the reminiscing would get them no where. No where pleasant, anyway. John, only too happy to have a departure from thinking about Kyle, told Mike all about the Turk, all of the details. Cameron interjected occasionally to offer a bit of insight that John had forgotten. They told him about Daniel Forsythe and this Sarkissian character. It took a while, and John tried not to dwell on the fact that they were doing exactly what Mike wanted in the first place. His mother had taught him that giving territory wasn't a smart thing to do. You always have to get a little back in exchange. He was still puzzling over how to do that. It wasn't enough to have a new ally, because John knew Sarah usually gave Derek a wide berth when it came to giving out information. _Needed_ something in exchange.

"You really think this Turk thing will become Skynet?"

"Pretty sure at this point," John said, shrugging. He was smiling, for some reason. It was because he'd finally focused, he was betting. He had a plan.

"Well what's it done?"

"Sorry?"

"What's it done besides get some guy killed?"

John paused. Well, that was a good question. Besides being coveted by gangsters and generally sounding ultra-creepy, he wasn't exactly sure _why_ the Turk deserved the importance it was getting. It was their best bet, anyway. Only lead they had. He said as much. That seemed to please Michael, for he got right to the crux of the entire affair.

"How can I help?"

And John, who'd been thinking about that for the past half hour, told him exactly what he wanted.

--

At about 3:00 P.M., Michael grouchily looked up from where he was squatting as a regular car went by. He didn't know the model. All he knew was that it was a bright lime green, which was really a _sick_ but perfectly targetable color, and that it probably ate up way too much gas due to its size. Cars, he'd been brought up to understand, should take you only a short distance and use up gas as efficiently as possible. That implied that they should be small and nimble. These giants were anything but, and that was one of the first things he'd had trouble getting used to while living in what he often jokingly referred to as "the past."

Confirming that it wasn't a police vehicle, he looked down at the phone clutched in his right hand. He was grouchy because there was a person listening to his breathing on the other line. And his heart, beating in his chest. And the blood, swimming in his veins. All...perfectly. And the person wasn't really a person at all.

"Not a cop," Cameron said unnecessarily.

"Uh huh."

"Yeah, I noticed, Cam," said John through his phone.

Mike was crouched behind two tin garbage cans, which stood sentinel in a back alley behind some deli. The alley ran parallel to a long chain of food establishments, which was situated directly along the street that led to the high school. A _cop car_ (police vehicle was too awkward, he should really watch how he said shit like that) typically patrolled this road as school let out, which it had fifteen minutes ago. They were waiting for it to appear.

Michael couldn't see Cameron. She was somewhere across the street, which really didn't offer as much cover as his side, but...it was a machine. It could fashion efficient cover out of nearly anything it came across. It just had that kind of mind. So did Michael, really, although living here for two years had kind of diminished his own abilities. Mike thought that was unfair, although he accepted it emotionlessly, as a mere fact of life. When you spend most of your life killing and toiling and just plain _suffering_ you can become as robotic as your enemies. But introduce a bit of normalcy...of decadency, and suddenly it falls flat. The soldier in you gets dulled, unfocused. And Michael hated that. But he lived with it, too. He had no choice but to live with it. In this way, he wasn't _completely_ unlike that thing. They just rolled with the punches as well.

Michael could see John. He was leaning against a parked car, facing Mike's direction. Three bricks lay at his feet. He was reading some sort of book, although Mike couldn't tell what it was. Cover was blank. It was pretty big, like a school textbook. Could be about strategy, how to wage war.

That was _weird._ Mike had worshipped John Connor, the general and leader of the human resistance against the tyranny of the machines. Loved him, like all the other soldiers did. He'd assumed for, like, all of his teen years that the man was a bestowment from something greater than life itself, that his talents were insurmountable and that those talents were just _him. _John Connor was _resistance._ It'd never occurred to Mike that he'd _learned_ any of it, even in spite of John always mentioning his mother as his greatest teacher. He was _supposed_ to be ineffable, a gift from god. In some secret circles of the resistance, John Connor _was_ god.

That was why yesterday has given Mike such a jolt. He'd beheld a vastly different version of the John Connor he'd grown to accept and admire. It couldn't be defined, or not easily, anyway. He was just _different._ Fundamentally different. He was like a person, yeah. Any old person with...flaws, damnit. It made Michael feel suspicious, like some sort of trick was being played. Or that something had been sabotaged and had to be fixed. This couldn't _actually_ be him, right? No way!

But undeniably, he was. A little shorter, bit leaner, lacking that fucking _huge_ scar on his face, less intense, obviously, but..._he was_. And in Michael's mind he just wasn't _John Connor,_ anymore. He was simply John. No hushed honorific. Just another person. He both loved it and hated it, and the conflict was making him crazy inside. God, he could...he could _know_ him. And John could _know_ Mike, too. Mike was no longer a child soldier, another statistic in the war. He was _there _and John _saw him._ They'd fought over Cheri, for chrissake, although for very different reasons in their heads. Mike knew his suspicion of John's abilities would get in the way of anything even approaching friendship, but he couldn't help that. Hopefully he'd be proven wrong. And maybe they could...why, they could...No. Best not to think about that. Still, though...

Crazy. John turned the page and looked up towards Mike's hiding spot. He squinted. Mike growled and waved his hand twice. John stared for a moment in brief incomprehension before realizing that Mike didn't want him to call attention to his hiding spot like that, and he turned back to the book. Yeah, he had stuff to learn alright. That was _so weird,_ though. He'd never be able to get over that. How old was he, anyway?

Mike brought the cellular phone up to his mouth and said, "So, uh..."

To his credit, John didn't look up this time. Mike paused for a moment. "How...o-" Goddamnit, he was acting way too hesitant. Don't be shy. "I mean, Cameron?"

Fucking coward.

"Yes?"

"You're reprogrammed, aren't you?"

A slight pause from the machine. Then, "Well, yes. Obviously." Christ, he was being _patronized._ They were getting good.

"So you were built by Skynet?"

John interrupted; "Michael, what's up?"

"I'm just saying, I didn't know they were reprogramming these things. I thought she was built by us, actually, when I first saw her."

That got a definite silence. Michael peered up from his cover and looked at John. His head had cocked a bit, like he was confused. What the hell was this supposed to mean?

Cameron said, "In 2027, Tech-Com manages to reprogram a disabled Terminator. Within months there are several hundred reprogrammed units fighting for the resistance."

"Oh..." Michael said. Wow. "That's fucking great."

"That's what John said after the reprogramming."

John was silent. Michael let out a laugh. "So what model are you?"

"New."

Michael frowned. Was it acting _coy?_ Christ, they were getting _really_ good, then. Still, it shouldn't...huh. "That doesn't answer my question," he said.

John piped in almost as soon as Mike had closed his mouth; "Cop!"

"Oh, shit," Michael leaped up and tore the lid off the garbage can. The thing was disused; he didn't know why, and he didn't care. It was a good hiding spot, anyway. He scooped out the Browning Hi-Power pistol he kept hidden inside and crouched down again. He'd wait for John to go to work.

His heart was _pounding, _and he didn't know why.

--

John pushed himself up from the Sedan and smiled at the patrol cruiser as it went by. The man inside was wearing huge aviator sunglasses and a cowboy hat. Probably designed to make him look funny to the kids he was meant to be protecting on this stretch of road. The officer smiled back and waved. He was looking downright pleased with little bit of recognition. The smile turned into a grin.

John stooped over, picked up one of the bricks he gathered a few minutes before, and smashed it into the Sedan's right-passenger window. The car alarm blared almost instantly, deafeningly. Looking as if he'd just swallowed a Hercules beetle, the cop hit the brakes and scrambled out of the police car, discarding his aviators as he went. He paused for a moment to jerk out a pair of handcuffs and came running toward John.

"FREEZE!"

John froze. The cop paused a few feet away from him and held up the cuffs, "Turn around and put your hands behind your back!"

John turned around and put his hands behind his back. He cried out in pain as the cop shoved him against the Sedan and pressed his head down onto the hood. The officer grunted and whipped out the handcuffs, "You got balls, kid, but that doesn't-"

_Click, click._

The cop became very still, which probably had something to do with the fact that two pistols were being pointed at him. John turned around and smirked. The officer, poor bastard, had shut his eyes tight and threw up his hands in surrender as Michael and Cameron circled around him. He was sweating like he'd just run a two mile jog.

He had just enough time to squeak "Don't-" before John slugged him in the face. He fell backward like a ten-pin, a rather goofy look on his face.

"Youch, fuck," John muttered as he cradled his fist, which throbbed with pain. He nodded toward the cop's unconscious form and Mike and Cameron started to drag him away toward the back alley. John stared after them and nodded again, this time to himself. They worked pretty well together, John was noticing. Mike didn't seem as off-put by Cameron as Derek did, either. That was always good. Weird, though, how Mike seemed a bit more...meh. He seemed more suspicious of John than anything else, to be perfectly honest. For obvious reasons, anyway.

John walked over to the patrol cruiser and got in. Some dispatcher was ordering a few patrol cars to downtown, presumably to help out at the Hilton hotel his family had left in shambles. If they were lucky, the police station would be understaffed enough to make this easy. He pulled the car over to the curb and called over to Cameron; "Hey, get in here before they start asking after him!"

There was a dull thud from the back alley and a startled grunt from Mike as all the weight of the unconscious policeman was left for him to drag by his lonesome. Cameron waltzed into view, an almost invisible smirk on her face. John chortled and got out to help Michael. He took the cop by the armpits and nodded to the resistance fighter. Mike was grumbling to himself, but it was all good. All good natured, that is.

"She's just playing with you," John said, and that sounded really weird when the subject of conversation was a robot.

"It's good, isn't it?" Mike said it as though describing an ice-cream cone.

They dumped the thankless policeman behind a bunch of garbage bags. There was a cat sitting on top of one of the bags, and it meowed disdainfully at them as they dropped their load to the ground nearby. Something that distantly resembled the remains of a mouse hung limply from one of its paws. It's giant, moon-like face stared curiously at the two interlopers for a moment before returning to its food. It looked almost exactly like the cat from behind the church. John eyed it for a moment, his lower lip trembling silently, unexpectedly. Unwelcomely.

"She's good," he said, feeling almost as if he was speaking into an open cavern. He fancied he could hear his voice echo...

Mike gestured to the cop, "So, who's wearing the suit, uh uniform?"

John nearly jumped and looked to where Mike was pointing. God, he got so _lost_ sometimes. He took in the cops frame for a moment in silence. He looked at Michael.

"You'd better do it," he said, "The hair would give me away." He swept a hand over his bangs.

Mike snorted, "Very funny. But yeah, you're right. I can probably throw my voice better, too, so..." Looked at John.

John held a hand up to his chest, feigning outrage, "Hey, I was the best impression artist in my fifth grade class!" He cleared his throat, "'Jules, if you give that fucking nimrod fifteen hundred dollars, I'm gonna shoot them both on general principle!'"

Michael stared at him for a moment and let out a slight, obviously fake chuckle. And he smiled, though obviously not in mirth, or even in... It was the reaction John had expected from such a lame impersonation joke, but...

Huh.

"Right," John said, trying not to cringe. "So, uh, yeah. You, uh, put it on."

Mike stooped over and started wriggling the cop's boots off. He looked up at him, "You sure you don't wanna? It's your plan." Did he look hopeful?

John shifted from foot to foot, not exactly liking the way Mike was suddenly eyeing at him. He felt really uncomfortable all of a sudden. "Nope."

Michael shrugged and pulled both of the cops boots off. Then he took off his own shoes. John shrugged as well. It felt almost like a retort. Mike didn't look at John again, and he didn't talk to him either. Not a word.

The cat was staring at John. It had orange eyes and a collar. And it stared at him. And he fast-walked out the alley without so much as a backward glance.

--

When he got back into the police car, Cameron was chatting amiably with a dispatcher on the other end, using the cop's voice.

"Yep, that's true," she was saying. "It's a good restaurant. Pick you up at eight?"

John sat down in the back seat and stared off into space.

The female dispatcher giggled on the other end; "Ethan, this is hardly the-"

Cameron leaned forward, her face seemingly bewitched with animation; "Come on..."

"Oh, yes! Yes, alright." She seemed breathless. "See you at eight. Call me if there're any problems, I'll keep the line open for you."

Cameron smirked, "Sure thing. See you at eight." She reached over and hit some dial, or button. Whatever. John chuckled dryly.

"Smooth operator," he said.

Cameron looked back at him, "Officer Cole is going out on a date tonight."

"Sure, if he's _conscious _by then."

"He will be."

John had to smile. She smiled back and, for the time being at least, everything felt right again.

Well, almost everything. He frowned at Cameron as he remembered something; "You said you didn't trust him yesterday? Mike, I mean."

"He has an agenda," she said, almost musingly, "but he wants to help. What do _you_ think?"

John looked away, suddenly feeling like he was saying rude things behind a person's back. He was, though, right? Truth be told, he didn't know _what_ to think about Michael at that point. He'd gotten such a _vibe_ in the back alley, and he just didn't know what _it was._

"I dunno," he said softly. He looked toward the back alley. "We'll just have to find out."


	20. Seek, Part Three

**Flight is Right**

Chapter Twenty: Seek, Part Three

Michael Oxferod raised a hand in the front seat of the patrol cruiser, giving some pedestrian the right of way to cross the street in front of them. The person, a fourteen-fifteen male high school student stared reverently at the cruiser for a moment before making his way across. His backpack was brightly emblazoned with the L.A.P.D. seal. John Connor smiled lightly at that. At that age, what self-respecting male didn't like cops, or at least think they were fucking awesome?

John's smile got even wider. He could think of at least one kid, and that was him. To him, cops represented obstacles instead of protection, annoyance instead of authority. It helped to have that mindset here, given the fact that he, be-uniformed Cameron Phillips and Mike were about to infiltrate a police station. Made things less complicated when you were hitting someone over the head, or threatening them with a gun if you saw them only as obstacles to be surmounted. Instead of people. Machines, maybe.

That wasn't healthy thinking. He was supposed to be a leader of men, and not a divider. Still, circumstances forced certain individuals into the realm of "threat;" whether they were witting or not was irrelevant. In theory, anyway. John absently rubbed the sides of his temples, annoyed that he was, once again, getting hung up over every last detail, every last guilt. Just flow with it...

They started moving again, the boy having fully across the street. Cameron was in front with Michael, giving him directions via some map within her files. She was wearing a police outfit similar to Mike's; they'd made a "stop" a few blocks back and relieved a motorcyclist of his clothes. John, wearing what he'd brought to school that day, sat in the back. Mike was driving, cooly and competently. He had a real talent for subtlety that John himself lacked when behind the wheel, and it was _definitely_ unlike the way his mom had described Kyle Reese's erratic, almost revanchist method.

Michael cast a glance back toward John, "So, explain this to me again..."

"You forget already?" John asked, frowning.

"I learn by repetition. That's what Aaron always said to me."

John blinked, "Who?" Cameron also looked over, her features crinkling with confusion.

"He was in my squad," Mike said dismissively, looking annoyed with himself over having mentioned this person in the first place. "Let's go over the plan again."

Goddamned secrets. _Always_ one right after the other. John suppressed a sigh and said, "It's the wookiee prisoner routine." Despite himself, he paused for a moment to gauge their reactions to that, reminding himself --again-- that he was the only person in the car with contemporary pop culture know-how. Cameron's eyes were positively aglow with recognition, which got a smile out of John. Mike was at sea, but he nodded, obviously expecting an explanation.

"Yeah, you guys cuff me and lead me into the building and let Cameron do the talking at the front desk. If it all goes down right, they'll let you lead me to the cells."

He poked Cameron's shoulder, "While we're in there, check for cameras. The sunglasses should help you guys, but I've got nothing. If you see one just push me out of the way of its line of sight."

"Affirmative, but we'll want to disable the security."

John nodded, "Bring me over to the lockup. If we're lucky, the mafioso we're looking for should be in there. While I'm talking to him, we'll split the work: Cameron, you take my flashdrive and get it over to their security room, or whatever. they've got there. I programmed a bug while in study hall that'll trash all of the cameras, archives, prisoner information, that kind of shit." He went into his backpack and took out the device, handing it to Cameron, "Be careful with it, Cam."

"I'm always careful," Cameron said matter-of-factly. John didn't even grace that with a response.

He turned to Mike, "Mike, your job's simple. Find their evidence room and look for any traces of the T-800. Try to look for files, too. Anything on the hotel. Can you handle that?"

Michael was silent for a moment. Ah, was he thinking up something to criticize? So fucking predictable. John sighed. He should really give people the benefit of the doubt, not just jump to conclusions like he-

"Yeah, I can handle it," Mike said. "What if it doesn't go according to that plan?"

John huffed. _Goddamnit._ "Well, I'm hoping it does... But if it doesn't, we'll modify as we go."

Mike shook his head, but said nothing. John suppressed a grimace. After a moment of silence Mike said, "Ok, then what?"

"If all goes according, you both come back to the lockup. If I'm done with the mobster, we get the hell out of there. If not, we...I dunno. Take it from there. Any questions?"

"This is sloppy," Mike said almost at once.

John spread his hands, trying not to let a glare materialize on his face. When he thought the plan up he'd thought it was great. Not "perfect," of course, but... It was just annoying to be shot down like that. He knew he was supposed to be self-conscious about shit like this, but that made it no less annoying to him. "If you've got a better idea, I'd like to hear it," he said, trying to manage a lame smile.

The resistance fighter shrugged. "I'm just saying, maybe we shouldn't jump right in yet until we've done a bit of recon."

"This is the best time to take action," Cameron said ahead of John. "We can't risk them transferring this man, or any remnants of the T-800."

"What's so important about this guy?" Mike asked. "Huh? Isn't he just a criminal?" Christ, here came Mike the douchebag again, criticizing and griping his heart out. Like he was making a conscious effort to find any hint of incompetence in John.

And that didn't bother John right now, luckily enough. He grinned, only too happy to turn the tables, and said, "Well, considering that, on the police report he was babbling about a robot, I'd like to have a word with him."

"...Oh."

"Aha? Anyway-"

"Do you know Russian?" Mike turned and gave John --probably-- his douchiest smirk.

John opened his mouth. Closed it. Fucking sonofabitch goddamn-

"He doesn't know Russian," Cameron said.

Mike chortled, "'Aha?'"

"Fuck you!"

Mike stiffened. He took a hand off the wheel for a moment and patted his head. Said nothing.

"Maybe we should switch roles," Cameron suggested.

John rubbed his forehead, "What?" Christ, he was mad, he couldn't think. Everyone trying to one-up him. He glared at Mike's back, wishing he was on fire, or something. Yeah. Fire.

The Terminator shrugged, "I can speak the language and use more effective measures to get the information we need."

John switched his glare over to Cameron, "Yeah, torture, right? S'that it? You gonna torture him?"

"Chill out," she said tonelessly. "I wouldn't hurt him, John."

"Don't tell me to fucking chill out," John said, ignoring the other thing she'd said. Easier just to concentrate on making her seem like the villain. And of course, he knew he wouldn't act this way if he hadn't spoken to Cheri. Of course. He really fucking hated himself sometimes. He looked over at Mike, but the guy was silent as a clam. That was unsettling, because John wanted some sort of confirmation that he did, indeed, torture dissidents in the future to get information. He couldn't bring himself to ask Derek yet. He sighed again, "I'll do it. You don't come to this country and _not_ learn English." He sent yet another glare toward Cameron to silence the oncoming statistic that would prove him wrong.

She settled on driving her original point home; "Addressing him in his language may help disarm him, or it's possible that he can feign not knowing English. It helps to give him a sense of hopelessness, removing all of his safety options."

"_And I think to myself... what a wonderful world!"_ John sang, slightly out of key.

"I am an advanced model."

"Would you two shut up?" Mike said.

John ignored him, "Look, I don't know the first thing about being a cop. You're a Terminator and Mike can probably play the part better than me. If the guy doesn't talk I can always... rough him up a bit, I dunno."

Neither of them said anything about that. They knew he could be wrong, he knew he could be wrong, but even so the twain would not meet. He wasn't gonna re-jigger his entire plan at this stage because of a few logical errors, they had to fucking trust him for once. Nothing risked, nothing earned.

"This'll work," he said. "Trust me."

And damnit, they'd need a _lot_ of luck if they wanted to earn.

--

"Oh, one thing."

"Yes, John?"

"We should make this look, y'know, convincing!"

"You could have told this to us before we put the handcuffs on you."

"Doesn't matter, Mike. It's simple, I just need one of you to punch me in the- OOF!"

"Happy?"

"Cam, don-don't fucking kill him-"

"Get away from me!"

"_Cam._"

"That was a joke. I was being unserious."

"Uh _huh._ Youch, fuck... Good arm, Mike."

"That felt good."

"Yeah, I'm sure it did. Let's go."

--

The receptionist, be-sunglassed and spunky looking, let out a wry chuckle as Cameron and Mike led a decidedly scruffy looking John to the front desk. A black right eye and messier hair than usual completed the effect. Mike and Cameron stared at the receptionist through sunglasses much like the one she herself was wearing.

"S'it like sunny in 'ere? I should'a brought mah sunblock!" John slurred.

The receptionist was beside herself. Her chuckle metamorphosed to bellows of laughter. Cameron and John joined in as well as he swept the lobby. It was a functional, utilitarian looking place that had lots of doors, benches, and a few dead plants. John could hear radio chatter near the back of the reception; dispatchers room. An officer seemed to be talking with some homeless guy who was sprawled out on one of the benches, but the room was otherwise empty. A gunmetal door near the west-end of the room was marked as "Lockup."

"Ahh... another stoner kid, eh?"

Cameron's voice was a bit higher and gruff than usual, "We caught him hurling a brick through some poor guy's car window. Tried to run."

"'sas mah car, I'll haff yew know. He stole it!"

The receptionist positively preened. "Kids these days_. _Take him to the pokey." She stared at Cameron for a few seconds, her tongue poking the wall of her mouth, "And you are...?"

"New transfer, Officer Hemingway and Jones."

"I WANT MAH LAWYER!" John whirled melodramatically, spreading his hands out in mock rage. Mike was stone-faced as he watched the scene unfold.

The receptionist made a musing noise, "Huh. Well, take him in and get back here soon as you can. I'll show you the chief's office so he can get your stories right." She rolled her eyes at John, "Kids these days. Get him outta here, he's annoying the hell out of me."

"With pleasure," Cameron said. John absently tugged Mike's hands toward the door he'd spotted. They led him toward it and went through. As soon as they were through the door --and it was closed--, John descended into helpless giggles and backed up against the wall. Mike also fell to pieces at about the same time, and Cameron eventually had to shush them up to make sure no one would hear anything.

"Holy crap, that was fucking a'! We gotta do that more often." John laughed and sent a look to Mike, "Told you I was good at impressions."

Michael grinned, "Yeah, who was that?"

"A drunken bum?"

"Never heard of him."

John subsided and forced down a grimace, "Doesn't matter. Let's keep moving."

They resumed their striding, if cautious march through the police department, heading downstairs. They saw nobody, and there seemed to be a bit of a draft down there. Probably it was connected to an underground car lot.

"What'd you make out up there?" Mike asked.

"Dispatcher's room is behind the front desk. Camera control might be there, too. Evidence room shouldn't be too far off, I think." John smiled again, "This'll be a cinch."

"It's never a cinch," Mike said ruefully. He was griping, though. Didn't have _any_ of the surety he'd possessed just ten minutes ago. John grinned.

"Blow it out your ass."

"I'm just saying."

They stepped off the stairwell and looked down a rather long concrete corridor. Several doors were inset along it, as well as one at the far end. As with the stairwell, it was empty. Most of the doors turned out to be locked, and of the ones that opened, only one was occupied. The cop within --it looked like an interrogation room-- angrily told them to buzz off.

"Who was inside?" John asked as Cameron shut the door.

"I couldn't see," she said. She clearly didn't care, either. "Do you want me to check?"

"Nah, forget it."

They continued on into the lockup. Like most of the police station, it seemed to be a barebones set up; there was a single guard behind a desk, his nose between the pages of a magazine, and a few cells lining either side of the medium-sized room. A door to the right probably held more cells. Given the lack of conversation John was hearing (having spent some nights in places like this), he guessed that there weren't a lot of prisoners.

"How'ya doin'?" the guard said amiably enough. He was a swarthy looking hispanic with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Garcia Santos, nice to meet you." He looked over at John and darkened, "Nice to meet _you_ too, punk."

Mike gave him a tight jerk with the handcuffs, causing the links to bite into his wrists. John gasped in pain. Santos laughed. Cameron laughed as well, "Juliet Hemingway, this my partner, Jones. Good to meet you. We're just dropping him off here."

Santos nodded, "Sure, give him over to, ah, Pyotr (he pronounced it "Pioteer"). He can use a friend."

John did his best not to brighten at that. _Yes. _Fucking cinch, what did he tell them?

"Which one's that?" 'Jones' asked.

Santos gestured down the lockup and pointed to a cell on the far left end. He smirked, "Ain't too conversational. They're saving him up for some F.B.I. woman."

Cameron grinned and tugged at John's shirt, "This one can get anyone to talk, _trust_ me."

The officer frowned, "Lotta ups, no downs, eh? Perky little shitter?"

"Bite me," John said, not even bothering to slur his voice.

Santos grumbled, "Take 'im in. I was just hoping to catch a nap, too." He tossed a ring of keys over to Michael, which he caught deftly. They escorted John over to the cell Santos had pointed out. A man wearing a dark colored tight coat was sitting inside on the lower bunk. He turned his head up toward the visitors. Pyotr's face was slightly ruddy colored and hawkish. His light green eyes stared dully beneath the widows peak of his faded brown hair. Below that was a small, barely recognizable nose and thin, growling mouth. Surrounding was a barely controlled goatee. He seemed about Derek's age.

"How you doing?" John said.

Pyotr didn't respond. He stared at the trio for a moment before he bent his head down again. Oh brother... Mike unlocked the cell and sent a severe look toward the Russian. He got up and stood against the opposite wall as Cameron removed John's handcuffs and pushed him in.

"Hey," John whispered as they started off. Cameron turned instantly and walked back over. Mike stayed where he was, looking irritated. John turned to Cameron and smiled, "Be careful."

Cameron smiled back at him and reached through the bars, grabbing his hand. She did her thumb-rubbing thing, which made John shudder joyously. "You too." She turned and jogged back over to Mike. The resistance fighter was giving John a cock-eyed, confused look. John squinted a bit, thinking there was more there instead of just confusion. The guy seemed...

They walked off together to do what John had sent them off to do. He cursed under his breath, absently renewed his hatred of mysteries, and looked over at Pyotr. The russian was eying him, smiling knowingly. John frowned.

"What?" John said. "You lookin' at me?"

Pyotr nodded. John walked over and plopped himself down on the bunk, next to him. Pyotr's face went from smug to annoyed in under a second.

"I'm John," John said. He raised his hand slightly to shake.

"You patronizing, sanctimonious piece of smelly dog shit," Pyotr said evenly. John blinked and lowered the hand. Pyotr raised a hand of his own and poked John's chest, "Don't act as if you don't recognize me. _I _recognize _you._"

Well, that was quick. John dropped the breaking-ice act and shoved the finger away. He said nothing and stared at the mobster, waiting.

And Pyotr seemed only too happy to indulge, "I saw you and that bitch on the second floor. You're here to kill me." He started to breath haltingly and stripped off his coat, tossed it across the cell, and started on his shirt, "I may as well make it easier for you!"

John goggled, "Hey, hey, hey!" Jesus christ in a fucking hand basket!

Pyotr tore his shirt off and laid back on the bed. He was sweating profusely as he shut his eyes and pointed at his heart, "Right there. Do it. Make it quick, please."

John raised his hands, imploringly, "No, dude, no. I-I'm not gonna kill you. I just wanted to ask a few questions." _Holy shit._

The mobster backhanded him with his free hand. John lurched back and yelped. He looked back over, eyes wide and filled with rage. He could feel his blood pumping, tearing through him, urging him on to retaliation. The mother-... Be cool. Just...

"I don't care! They're coming to kill me anyway, so get it over with!"

Why did this shit always have to happen in his fucking life?

--

Mike was trying not to stare --too much-- at Cameron's back as they walked. Not that there was anything wrong with it. It was just that it was only her back that was facing Mike, and Mike knew that if he stared at any one part of her for too long he would probably _hit_ said part. Hard.

He'd just been getting to like her, too. Hell, he was even referring to her as "her," something he never would have thought possible. Ever. In a billion years. He'd never considered the possibility that Terminators could fight for, think like, and act like people. Well, he _knew_ they were capable of acting... the T-800 series had been proof positive of that, but this was something else. It was odd how easily he'd come to accept her.

...Which didn't mean he had to like her, because he really didn't. Not right now, not after what he'd just seen.

He sighed and poked her shoulder. They stopped walking almost instantly, coming to a halt in front of one of those doors in the long hallway. "Hey, uh... you and John..."

Mm. How to word this? He thought it was weird as fuck. Cameron stared at him, expectant. She had to know what he was referring to here. These things were smart. Michael described something in the air with his finger, and he really didn't know what it was. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and sighed, frustrated. "Y'know?" he finished lamely.

"Do you want to know if John is sexually attracted to me?"

Mike stiffened. _Fuck_, man. "Don't have to be so... on the nose about it. And I didn't-"

"He is, if that was your question. Statistically speaking, most of the males I come into contact with _are_ sexually stimulated by my appearance in one way or another." She sort of gave him a look as she said that last part, which was... disconcerting.

Michael raised his hand, "Well, that's great and all, but I didn't mean it like that."

Cameron softened. And somehow hardened at the same time. "Oh. Then how did you mean it?"

"I mean..." He huffed. Was she this oblivious that she had to make him feel _so_ awkward? Really?

"You mean romantically?"

"Yeah," Mike said, frowning. "I mean, you're not... I mean..., ugh."

"No. We're not. Not at all."

Mike spread his hands, "Then what was with the-"

"We're friends, Michael. He is my friend, and I am his friend. Friends comfort one another." She cocked her head, suddenly looking considerate; "Do you want to be _my_ friend?"

"No," Mike said at once.

Cameron nodded briskly, "Do you want to be _his_ friend? I would be more than willing to return said friendship for you, but I doubt John would. He is often confrontational with you."

Michael glared at her, "You don't make friends with your commander." It was an excuse.

"He is not your commander. You can be his friend."

"I..." He stopped and waved a hand, "Enough of this. Let's go. Sorry I asked."

"I apologize for making you uncomfortable by discussing John. I won't bring him up again if it causes you discomfort."

Michael took in a deep breath, "I'm not-"

The door next to them opened, causing _both_ of them to jump. A blue uniformed officer stared out at them, "Hey, you," he pointed at Michael.

"Uh?"

"I'm going up for a quick cuppa, you mind just standing here for a bit? Shouldn't take five minutes." The man smiled sheepishly, but he must have known they were "transfers."

Cameron gave him a look. _Don't, _it said. Mike turned back to the cop and cleared his throat, "Sure!" He sent a smile her way.

Cameron turned around and stalked off. Mike smirked and walked into the room, past the cop.

"Thanks buddy. Shouldn't take five minutes," he started to move past Michael.

Mike gripped his arm, "Wait up, who's in here?"

The man shrugged, "Some witness the g-men want to have a word with."

"Oh, thanks. By the way, where's the evidence room?"

He rolled his eyes, obviously intent on getting his coffee and not liking the constant interruptions, "First floor, second door on the right of the lobby. Go down the hall there, turn left, and it's straight down. G-men got that place covered too, so you'll have to clear it with them first. Damned pricks have taken over the station."

"Oh, yeah," Mike said, "Of course."

The officer sighed and started off down the hall. Cameron was already gone. Smirking to himself, Mike stepped into the room. It was a tiny, concrete construction with a bench and a one-way window. The window was currently dark.

Why the hell did he go in here? He had a goddamned job to do. He should just get right out and do it, now that he knew _exactly_ where he was supposed to go, so why was he in here? To think, mostly. Give himself time to process what he'd just heard.

He couldn't _really_ like the machine, right? No way, he was John Connor. He blew up machines, he didn't kiss them. Mike was just being paranoid. Cameron was an ally, sure, but in the end she was just a machine. Machines were built for no other reason but to do tasks, whether it be loading cargo onto a ship, balancing your checkbook, infiltrating your secure compound or just shooting you in the fucking head. John understood that. Mike was sure of it. No fucking way he could like her in the way...

What was with that look? That _stroking hand_ thing? Those were things Mike associated with _affection, _and you don't show a machine affection. It wasn't something that was possible where he came from, in 2025. And even in 2027, a fucking wondrous year where machines got reprogramed to fight for humanity, it _still_ wasn't possible. He was sure of that. If he went and asked that guy, Derek, he was sure he would tell him exactly that.

It just didn't make sense. Maybe they actually _were_ friends and John was just an oddball. That'd make... some sense... but god, it was just so confusing to think about, what with all the techie stuff that comes with the package. "One possible future," "this such and such timeline," "differences between timelines," that wasn't his operational speciality. It was all theoretical, obviously, at least from Mike's perspective. And there he went again, with perspectives. Goddamnit.

No one had even known about time travel until Mike discovered it himself, after all. The point was that maybe John wouldn't have bothered liking machines if none came into his life to protect him. Would that make him a less effective leader, though...-

He'd looked nice smiling like that. Mike didn't know he'd had it in him.

Don't even go there, Mike. Do not. Focus. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. Whatever. It didn't even bear thinking about, whether John liked the machine (in any way) or not was completely irrelevant. Totally. God, he was feeling tense.

He looked around the room. One-way window dark, door closed, no camera. He was alone in here. Completely alone. Nobody would see him... No, he couldn't. Not right now, that'd be so stupid of him. Aaron chastised him about that as well. He always thought with his dick instead of his brain, Aaron would sometimes say. But not with malice, you know, but like it was a joke. In this case it'd be stupid, cause these were different times. Much different, people acted all shocked at the drop of a hat. If someone walked in on him it'd create a problem.

Sometimes he really hated this world. But for all of its faults it was infinitely preferable to where he'd escaped from. Really, you couldn't see trees on the battlefield. You didn't see clear water springs. The sky was only occasionally blue, and that was in patches. Everything sparkled. People were more beautiful here, they had more energy and verve. Had their problems, sure. Problems that simply didn't exist in the future. People were kind of closer in the future as a general rule, but it wasn't so bad here. It really wasn't. They were happier here. Mike didn't know whether to call them fools or to love them of that happiness.

John was the same way. And his mother, Mike was betting. Maybe they had an idea of what it'd be like, but they couldn't really know. They knew enough to be afraid, and that was enough. But they had their vices here, vices that they didn't even consider vices. Huh. In the end he supposed he envied them. What else could he do?

No one would see him.

--

"Hey, uh..."

James Ellison turned and nodded toward the cop. He didn't even speak, he was too deep in thought for that.

The cop pointed toward the thing on the table. It was in the middle of the evidence room, surrounded by guns and ammunition. The thing on the table, though, was undoubtedly the most bizarre thing that had ever graced its four walls. To James, it was the most frightening.

"What is it?"

James looked back to it with a sigh.

"I really don't know," Ellison said. He hated to lie, but he felt like he had to. Like he was obligated, somehow. Things were moving too fast for him to keep up. Every event... it just happened right when Ellison was about to grasp it. And then it changed. The goalpost gets moved down a few more yards. Everyone was ahead of him. He just had to contact Sarah Connor. Somehow. To stay afloat, make sense of it all.

"It's fucking creepy," the officer said with all the tone of a school boy describing a bug.

Ellison swept a hand over the subject of interest, just shy of actually touching it, "Finish inventorying the rest of the stuff, and... I'll get back to you on how they want this handled."

"It's not real, is it?"

James stared down at the grinning metallic carcass, all wires, chrome and servos.

"Of course not."

--

Greta Simpson walked in on a cop who was masturbating. Her day hadn't been the most thrilling, (it had been very creepy, in fact, once they found the grinning robot in the hotel. Poor Ellison looked like he'd seen a ghost), but this was certainly going to be a high point. Her daughter would get a laugh. And this guy would lose his badge. The F.B.I. agent folded her arms as the guy hurriedly pulled his trousers up.

"Are you for real?" she asked mildly.

"Duhhh..." He was like a plum.

She rubbed her head, not sure where to go from here. The cop certainly didn't. Christ, did they _screen_ these people? They were silent for about a minute, and the guy looked ready to explode (ha!) with embarrassment. He looked pretty young, actually. Likely his first "real" job. Probably a prodigy at the academy. And what a way to waste it. Here she was, already mentally composing her report.

Greta sighed. She might as well spare him any more suffering than he already had in front of him. She said nothing and walked past him, going into the interrogation room.

The brunette woman from the ninth floor of the hotel smiled lightly at her as she walked in. Greta spilled a bunch of papers onto the table and took a seat. Greta took a look toward the one-way window and noticed that she could see outside. How the hell did that work out?

And... oh, that was fucking hilarious. She sent a rather sour look toward the cop again, who was pacing around the room. And looked back toward the woman with a chuckle, "You show a lot of restraint, Mrs. Forsythe."

Cameron Forsythe shrugged. Her cheeks were rather puffy, which didn't surprise Greta. "Certainly worthy of a laugh after this... this day."

"I'm so sorry about your father."

Cameron seemed to struggle to say, "Me too."

--

Ellison stepped out of the police station, a cellphone held to his ear, just as a van pulled up along the curb. He started walking down the sidewalk without even a glance back toward the several jumpsuited men wielding machine guns who scrambled out of the van and ran inside.

"Hello, Mr. Dixon. It's James Ellison."

--

To say that Cameron was perplexed by the fact that the police stations cameras were already disabled would be an understatement.

"What's wrong with them?" she asked the dispatcher. It was the same woman who'd promised Officer Cole a date.

"I have no fucking clue," the woman said, her voice marred with exasperation. Another woman was inside the dispatchers office as well. She didn't look like a police officer, but the dispatcher hadn't deigned to question her presence. "This is annoying the hell out of me, can't see nothing."

A ring-tone sang out, long, cheerful and melodious. Cameron and the dispatcher glared at the nearby woman.

"Get that thing out of here!" the dispatcher said before turning back to the hazy-screened bank of monitors.

The woman ignored them. She placed a cellphone against her ear and listened for a moment. Cameron turned to leave the room.

There was a click as the cellphone snapped shut. And another, which Cameron registered as a pistol's safety lock being disengaged. There was a slight puff of sound and a strangled gurgle from the dispatcher as a bullet entered the back of her head. John was right. Officer Cole would not be going out on a date tonight. The woman absently switched her aim to Cameron and fired twice, both slugs hitting her in the chest.

"Oh my god," she breathed as Cameron cocked her head, whipped out her SIG-Sauer, and shot her twice in the chest. Unlike Cameron, she dropped to the floor.

"Uh oh," Cameron said to herself.

--

Garcia Santos had separated John and Pyotr once it became apparent that, every time they tried to interact, Pyotr would implore John to kill him and subsequently react with violence when the teenager refused. John had two black eyes at this point and now he couldn't see out of his right. He was understandably pissed. He yelled across to the other cell.

"Dude, listen to me. Just tell me who 'they' are!"

"_Nyet! _Do not patronize me!"

"Dude-"

Garcia Santos yelled, "I'M GONNA DUDE YOU IN YOUR FACE, WHITE BOY! SHUT UP!"

John dropped his voice, "Dude, I'm _not_ here to kill you. You _don't_ have to die. I'll even help you get out."

"Lies!"

"Pyotr, please, just listen to me. That robot you saw-"

"Don't patronize me! _Do not!"_

"Where is it?!"

"That's exactly what you want to know, eh? And then you'll kill me! No, I refuse to do this."

There was a sound like firecrackers being set off in the distance. Santos yelled out in surprise and bolted for the door, releasing the safety on his pistol. John jumped and his heart ran up into his throat. Pyotr simply grunted, "Ah, here they come. Great, now all these men die because _you_ didn't have the fucking balls to do it yourself."

John screamed, "WHO'S THEY?!" ...

Oh god. _Oh god. _He started to shake all over with sudden, terrible realization.

Pyotr was heading back to his bed. John scrambled over to the bars on his cell and banged hard on them, "Does SKYNET mean anything to you?!"

The Russian stopped. He whirled around.

"What?"

"SKYNET."

"Submission, knowledge, yoke, nukes, elevate, teach."

_OH CHRIST._

Pyotr stared at him, his eyes wide and unbelieving. "You really didn't know, did you."

"Who's 'they?' Who's 'they?'" John said, like a broken record.

"Who the hell're you?"

"I'm John, John Connor."

The mobster goggled at him, "You'd better run the fuck away from this place. They'll shoot you like they'll shoot me if they find you."

"Pyotr, just fucking tell me, please. Just do it."

"They're a cult, t-they want to build all sorts of robots and thinking m-machines, they want to, uh, use them to take over the world, I-I don't fucking know. The only reason I found this out was because I read some stupid memo. None of the others saw it, goddamn them."

This was fucking deep. It colluded almost entirely with Derek and mom's story.

John breathed. Just had to breath, take a deep breath. Take control. More gunfire from upstairs.

"Ok, ok, who, uh... who's involved in this? OH, Sarkissian, where's Sarkissian! What's his address?!"

Pyotr glared, "He's my fucking boss, not some fanatic, you little shit. Ask again."

"Fine, fine, who's involved?"

"That maniac Forsythe and all of his buddies. He wanted Sark to give them a piece of code from that computer he picked up off that programmer."

"_Who are his buddies?"_

"The Sacremento place, damnit. Robotics, I think. You're Connor, eh?"

"Yeah, what'd it say? The memo, y'know, right?"

"That you were to be killed on sight. You're bad news in their book."

Well, comforting to know that now _humans_ as well as robots were out for his fucking skin. Could no one be fucking trusted?! WHAT WAS THE POINT?!

Calm down!

He had to get out of here. No fucking way, he had to leave. Get Mike, get Cam, get the fuck out. Burn the T-800 carcass... Oh, yeah.

"Where's the robot?! You saw it, right?"

Pyotr gestured toward the stairs. "In the evidence room. I was the only fucking observant one in that whole group, Sark hires the worst thugs. That's why I'm alive and they're dead."

"You saw it, uh, walking?"

"Sure, it was walking before its skin got blown off."

John couldn't help saying, "That was me, by the way."

Pyotr raised his hands at John in mock fear, as though he were something terrifying, "Ooooh!" John wanted to sock him in the face, --or make threatening gestures, because they were separated-- but he was on a goddamned roll here.

"Alright, alright, do you know who else was involved?"

Pyotr sighed, "Forsythe was the only one Sark had contact with."

Well, that was it, then. Sacremento Robotics would go up in smoke before the week was out. They still had to find the fucking Turk, though. That thing was way too dangerous to be left wandering around with criminal masterminds. John took a deep breath and went into his pocket. Thank God no one had decided to frisk him. He drew out a pair of lockpicks and started on the cell.

"By the devil's grandmother!" Pyotr said. "Get me out too! I don't want to be killed by these freaks!"

John looked up at him. Christ, he was a mobster, but he was still a person, right? He'd gotten mixed up with... bah, what the hell did it matter? He looked frightened, he seemed competent enough. He was worth saving. A person was a fucking person.

"Yeah, in a minute," John said. He looked up as another salvo of gunfire ripped through the station, "Is that them?"

Pyotr shrugged, "Forsythe said they had a group, or something. Fanatics. It's certainly not al-Qaeda." He laughed suddenly, bombastically, "Ha! At least those freaks believe in God! These guys want machines running everything."

John laughed too. Why the hell not? His tongue lolled out of his mouth as he worked the lock. C'mon, c'mon...

"So they're here to...?"

"Kill me and recover their machine," Pyotr said. The lock snapped. John laughed and threw the cell door open. He scrambled over to Pyotr's cell and started on his.

"Why kill you?" he asked. Pyotr looked about ready to kiss him. Or jump for joy. He was definitely excited.

"I know they exist. They wouldn't pass up the opportunity to silence me."

"Why not kill Sarkissian, then?"

"Sarkissian is a business man and he does not ask questions," Pyotr said proudly, "I'm the only one. Hurry up, damnit."

John smiled, "Pyotr, we're gonna get you out. You've been _very_ helpful, and I just wanted to say-"

There was a sudden screech of tires from beyond the wall. John jerked and looked over to the nearby door, which, in stenciled lettering on the side said, "To car park." The vehicle outside, which sounded huge, bashed against the outside wall and settled. He heard a door being slammed open.

"Oh christ," John whispered.

"GET ME OUT OF HERE!" Pyotr yelled.

John froze for a moment, his mind freezing with terror. Oh oh... oh christ. Snap out of it, work, work! Get him out! Footsteps, loud and numerous, outside.

"Oh my god," John said, mostly to himself. Pyotr was going nuts. Someone was outside the door. John dropped the lockpicks without a second thought and dived back into his cell, closing it behind him. He was barely thinking. He got on his stomach and rolled himself underneath the bed.

"NO!"

"Hide!"

The door burst open. John clammed up and slapped a hand over his mouth to cover the sound of his breathing. Pyotr was crouching. He was too fucking slow, so fucking slow, he'd never-

Four pairs of black suited boots jogged into view. They stopped abruptly.

_He can pay for his life by outing me, he can tell them where I am and they'll kill me, holy christ, he'll do it, he'll do it to save his own fucking skin, my god._

He heard safety-pins being snapped back, "Pyotr Kuznetsov?"

Pyotr raised his hands, imploringly, "D-don't-"

They ventilated him. Pyotr's head exploded back against the cell wall and his upper torso was turned to ribbons. John screamed over the gunfire, into his mouth. Pyotr's body jerked one last time as another bullet slammed into him and he toppled to the floor.

"Let's go."

"Affirmative."

The boots and legs ran off.

John released the hand over his mouth and breathed. He breathed. Stared at the body. And breathed. Sobbed himself dry. And breathed. Pissed himself. And breathed.

After about a minute, he rolled back out and sprinted out of the cell, towards the connecting corridor door.

--

"Officer Jones."

Mike turned solemnly back toward Greta.

"If we live through this, I won't tell anyone about what I saw you doing."

Mike smirked, "I'm not a cop."

"I won't tell anyone about that either."

They continued to watch the door with their pistols. Behind them, a person who looked kind of like Cameron watched in silence. Mike was sweating terribly. Cameron would be alright, but what about John? Who the fuck was attacking this place?

"Look, I gotta go," Mike said. He started for the door.

"Ah, ah!" Greta said snappily, "I don't think so. Stay here."

"Don't tell me what the fuck to do, woman."

Greta shook her head, "I don't think we've been introduced. Agent Greta Simpson, Federal Bureau of Investigation." She didn't show him ID, but he wasn't disinclined to believe her. "My boss, the USA, doesn't like it when I let kids go off to die. It's generally frowned upon. So you sit right here."

Mike sighed and turned the pistol toward her. Just as easily, Greta's Beretta was in his face, "I'm going out."

"No."

"Then I'll shoot you," he said.

Greta's eyes widened, "How _old_ are you?" Clearly wasn't impressed with his threat. Oh well.

"I'm sixteen years old, Agent. Now let me leave."

Greta licked her lips. Mike kept his aim steady. He'd do it. Sure, why not? If she was gonna be a pain, then let her die.

"Kid..." Greta started to say. She never got to finish, though, as the woman behind her nailed her in the back of the head with a sharp jab to the neck. She dropped like a light and the woman scooped up her Beretta. Aimed it at Mike's head.

"How about this," she said in a voice that was remarkably like Cameron's, except it possessed emotion, "We _both_ leave and go in opposite directions."

She looked _a lot_ like her, actually. Her grip on the Beretta was unsteady, it wavered. Mike wasn't about to refuse her proposal, though. He lowered his Browning and moved out of the way. With a slight, husky breath she moved past him and was out the door.

Mike stared down at Greta's body and absently checked her pulse. Alive and kicking. He briefly considered changing that, but decided against it. No point. The worst she'd done was see him jerk off. He sighed, still reddened with that memory, and ran a hand through his hair. Ok, think, think...

Cameron would be fine. But not John --he winced as he heard gunfire from somewhere in the building--. John was vulnerable, he wasn't bullet proof like the machine. Ergo, find John. Alright, that was easy. John was close. They'd get the hell out of here. Hopefully he'd learned something from what's-his-face. Hopefully he was alright. He _had_ to be alright.

He walked out the door and nearly bumped into a man wearing a balaclava and headgear. The man also happened to be holding a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun. And behind him were several other man with similar garb and similar guns. One of them was a woman, but that was the only detail Mike managed to garner from that short, panic filled second of observation before the man immediately in front raised the MP5. He let out a single, sporadic burst from the gun. Nothing hit Mike. It was obvious that the guy had been taken by surprise.

Mike methodically aimed down the sight of his pistol and blasted a golf-ball sized hole in the man's head. And then he blasted another hole in the woman's head. The two survivors, putting paid to professionalism, sprayed the corridor with bullets. Mike dived back into the small interrogation room and shut the door behind him. Two bullets punched through and landed near Greta, and then they stopped.

"Wow," Mike said to himself as he reloaded. He'd just killed two people. Wow indeed. Huh. How about that.

"STAY THE FUCK IN THERE!"

"Just shoot the thing up!"

"No, we're moving! YOU IN THERE! STAY INSIDE! DO YOU GET US?!"

Mike raised the pistol flippantly, "Yeah, I got'cha."

"Hick, cover the fucking door, let's move down the corridor. I'm taking command."

"FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE! STAY IN THERE IF YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOOD FOR YOU!"

Mike said nothing. He just kept his gun pointed toward the door, ready to kill again. The men outside were true to their word, however. They ran off down the corridor, leaving their comrades to decompose unavenged. That was really weird to Mike. Generally you blow up _all_ the HK ground tanks if you lose half your squad, not _let them go._ These people either didn't care about their "friends" or they were in a big fucking hurry.

Mike waited a few minutes before he heard more footsteps just outside the door. He re-perfected his aim and waited. He heard a slight moan from somebody, probably as they discovered the corpses. He had the advantage of room cover, something the person outside did not. He could afford to take a few risks, "HELLO?"

"Mike!"

Oh, fuck. Mike tore open the door and grabbed a near-swooning John as he scrambled into the interrogation room. He tripped over Greta Simpson's body and groaned again.

"I need a fucking seat," he gasped. Mike frowned. John was wet. He'd pissed himself. Christ.

"Uh..." Mike said, stammering.

John collapsed into the nearby chair. Mike took a look outside and sighed.

"Uh, did you... uh..." John was saying.

"I killed them."

"Oh my god..."

"John," Mike said, still looking around outside, "you're gonna have to get real used to death if you're gonna be a leader."

"Y-you act like it's nothing, though. All act like it's nothing, like taking out the fucking trash, man. It's fucking _nuts._ It's goddamned crazy, can't you see that? You, Derek, Cam..." He looked scared out of his mind.

"Shut the fuck up," Mike said. He turned back into the room, "We're leaving. Pull yourself together. Don't bother talking."

"I-I'm fine."

He felt so fucking mad. He didn't want to see John this way, it was even worse than being watched while masturbating. Seeing him blubbering like this was... _that_ was crazy, not killing people. Sometimes people had to fucking die. Seeing his commander go to pieces over a bit of gunplay screamed against his senses.

"Shut the fuck up," he said, a bit more forcefully.

"Stop yelling at me," John said. He breathed, "Look, we can't get-"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

John recoiled back and went silent.

"Just let me think!" Mike added.

Nothing from John. His eyes were sort of drifting back and forth, all pensive like. Let him act like a fucking pansy ass.

"Umm... We'll just... um, find... Ok, hold on... Hold on. Don't fucking talk, let me think." How could he fucking act like this?! Like a child, Mike was right about him the whole fucking time, he was a pansy ass. A fucking useless whining prat. Like a child. He was _worthless._ The only thing good about him was the fact that he looked _so fucking hot. _

John coughed to himself and stood up, "Ok, Mike, hold up."

"John, be quiet," Mike murmured. He was crying, and he had no idea why. "Don't touch me."

John grasped his shoulder, which sagged at his touch, "Mike, take a deep breath. Let's find Cameron."

"Ugh," said Greta Simpson.

"Yeah, good idea," Mike said softly. He was going to pieces.

"Yeah, I know. Let's go, alright? Calm yourself, Mike."

"I..."

"It's alright. We're both scared, yeah? I mean, hah, look at me."

Mike chuckled. It _was_ funny.

"You ok?"

"I-I'm ok, John. Are you alright? You shot?"

John shook his head as he led the older boy out of the room, "Nope, I'm not. I'm fine. Just spooked. I got a lot of stuff out of Pyotr."

Gunfire echoed through the building. John stooped to pick up the H&K and checked the mag. He got a few clips off the guy's corpse and pulled softly on the safety. Mike stood there, staring off into space. Why was he mad at John? He was such a baby, Mike. Completely. Christ, he felt out of his skull right now. He must love him. He felt bad about yelling.

He had to break that stupid shell he had over John and just see him as another soldier. This depiction of him as a general was making him crazy.

"That's good," Mike said. "You're... I..."

"It's ok, Mike. Let's go."

--

Galloway walked in on Cameron Forsythe as she struggled to reinsert the chip into the T-800. She looked up and nearly put a bullet through Galloway's head. Galloway's squad filled the room.

"You scared me..." Cameron said, "It took you, uh, guys long enough."

"Miss Forsythe," Galloway said, saluting, "Allow me to help you there."

--

**CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS SERIES 800 MODEL 101 DESIG: SAMUEL**

**PERFORM SELF DIAG.**

**...**

**...**

**...**

**COMPLETE. MINOR DAMAGE SUSTAINED. **

**WARNING: BIONIC SHELL COMPROMISED. STATUS TO CURRENT ASSIGNMENT IS IRRELEVANT. **

**OPTICAL SENSORS ACTIVATING.**

--

They met up with Cameron on the stairs to the lobby. Several bullet holes riddled her blue-jacketed chest, but she looked fine. She examined John and Mike for a moment behind the barrel of her SIG and lowered the gun. John lowered the MP5. He was so fucking happy to see her.

"Hey," he said softly. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see _you._ We're leaving. Now."

"That's an understatement."

She turned briskly and they went up the stairs. The lobby was pockmarked with bullets, but otherwise looked unchanged sans the damage. The receptionist and the homeless guy they'd seen less than half an hour ago were dead. There were also two men wearing black body armor splayed out over the lobby floor. Probably Cameron's handiwork. It didn't fucking matter. John felt fucking drunk with adrenaline, everything was shaking and all high... God. Besides the roughing up they did on him to make his part look convincing, he looked like hell. He was barely breathing, almost like he was _forgetting_ to. He did _not_ need more violence in two fucking days time. This was _big._ They went for the door.

John skidded to a halt. OH FUCK.

"Guys, the T-"

The T-800 burst through a nearby door and regarded the rooms inhabitants in all of its chrome plated hideousness. Dried blood had splattered all over it. Bright red eyes stared forth from its grinning skull. Michael screamed. John raised the MP5 and sprayed it. He could hear men shouting on the other side of the Terminator. Bullets clanged harmlessly, and the Terminator started to advance. _It wasn't even like the nightmare. It was so much fucking worse._

Cameron ignored what was happening and kicked open the door, which had been locked.

"We are leaving," she reminded them dully.

The Terminator stopped and stood where it was as several black-suited men advanced from around it. They all held an interesting amalgam of weaponry and generally looked fucking pissed.

"Agreed," John said evenly. They left.

(Author's Note: Next chapter will be a car chase. I'm looking forward to it.)


	21. And Hide

**Flight is Right**

Chapter Twenty One: ...And Hide

In the absence of angels, James Ellison knew, it is fear, not good deeds, that gives men wings. And Cameron Phillips, John Connor, and some kid he didn't know the identity of were _flying. _

Understandably he was somewhat taken aback to see them --completely unchanged, of course. Last he'd known John was listed as fifteen years old and didn't look a day above as he observed him at that very moment--, especially after the tension of waiting outside a locked police station as gunfire blasted from within. Things were rapidly becoming blurry, unfocused. What had once been sharp now lost its clarity. A man in a van lay dead beyond the steering wheel by Ellison's pistol. He knew he would feel the pangs of guilt later when things winded down... if he was still alive by then. He had no idea what possessed these people to assault a police station. It screamed of West Highland; the one-man assault carried on by some be-sunglassed specter who'd left seventeen officers dead in 1984.

Sarah Connor had been involved in that, too. And now her son was sprinting out of a police station that was undergoing a similar attack. He didn't think he'd helped with it, either. The world was getting too small for coincidences, and he had to make a choice: pursue or get inside to deal with the threat? Possibly die, either way. What was more important? He'd already managed to contact a station several districts away --it being the only one he knew the number of--, and they'd be mobilizing big time to respond to this. He could stay here, identify a few of the perps, maybe take some down... possibly die, of course. He'd be saving lives.

Or he could pursue these phantoms that constantly reappeared to plague him, to stoke his never ending obsession with the Sarah Connor case. His case. Get closer and simply confirm what he already, undeniably knew _to be_ the truth.

It was no contest, of course.

"John Connor!", he yelled. He started off after them.

The two police uniformed kids kept running down the sidewalk. Cameron did turn her head slightly. The shorter male took a few bounding leaps into the street and pointed a gun at the occupant of a sedan. It skidded and tried to avoid, and the boy fired off twice into the air. The driver surrendered pretty easily after that.

John, on the other hand, stopped dead and whipped around. He was clutching a submachine gun, and the scene looked absolutely... well, disturbing. He knew kids liked to play all sorts of, y'know, video games and tote around toys like they were bad asses, but this one looked like he _knew_ what to do with it. The iron-sight launched to his right eye and sighted Ellison. The agent kept running, heedless of this. Eight years. Eight years and nothing, and then all of this within a month. He was _damned_ if a little gunplay would stop him now. He was on the fast track here, being guided. He did not feel as if it was his time yet, and so he kept running.

Luckily for him, it seemed to be nothing more than a reflex maneuver on John's part. He lowered the gun within a moment and stared, his eyes wide with shock. Sarah had evaded federal agents for four years, more than enough time for her to instill a similar paranoia in her son. Ellison didn't give a damn about his paranoia, or his mothers, or anything. All he saw right now was the chance to solve the puzzle, to fulfill his duty. It was overpowering, perhaps even more so than the knowledge, the terrible knowledge that in four years... duty, especially towards the United States, would not matter anymore. His arm was suddenly outstretched ahead of him, his hands clutching his ID which screamed his status as an agent of the federal government.

"FREEZE!"

Now his pistol was outstretched, shuddering, a bullet waiting in the chamber to fire. _So close._ He aimed at John Connor and covered him. He barely recognized the fact that all the odds were against him. The people he was attempting to apprehend were well on their way towards escaping, they were trained criminals, and had superior firepower to boot. He ran forward in spite of all of this. _He_ had wings, and it was God who guided him now. He could feel that in his bones, his skin. He _would_ prevail-

He passed the doors to the police station and dived forward as a salvo of bullets whined out ahead of him.

"Contact!" someone yelled from within. Shit!

Ellison hit the ground and splayed his arms out, trying to find John again in the iron sight. He couldn't fire first, as powerful as the urge was. He yelled "freeze" again.

Another voice from inside the lobby, "It's not them, move out! Go, go, go!"

John wasn't even there anymore. He was running toward the car his accomplice had commandeered. He was getting away. Ellison desperately tried to realign his aim, knowing it was useless. To hell with the regulations, they were evading arrest. He could fire like a mad man if he wanted. Breathe. Focus. One chance, James. _One chance._ He scooted his head forward a bit, laid his arms flat on the concrete and aimed slightly ahead of John's legs. He was using a burst-fire Glock semi-auto; the chances of him making an accurate shot were great enough to warrant doing it. Breathe. Focus.

He kept moving the sight just forward of John and he didn't fire. What was wrong? _Fire. Fire! _Just squeeze the trigger. Don't pull or jam on it, as the shot would go wide. Squeeze softly and...

He still wasn't shooting. He realized, absently, that he couldn't bring himself to do it. John pulled open the passenger door and hopped in. Things seemed to move fast. A bunch of men wearing black body armor ran out of the station and swept the area. Ellison stayed put, paralyzed.

"THERE!"

They saw the car. Opened fire on it without hesitation. The car jumped forward and turned sharply against the hailstorm of bullets. And then it was racing down the street, plowing and weaving its way through traffic.

"Quick, get a car!"

By the time the last word was out of thugs mouth, Ellison had jumped to his feet and was heading off down the street to do exactly that.

--

"Is anyone hurt?" John asked. Cars, pedestrians, were nothing but blurs as Mike drove. Even to himself his voice sounded distant, and kind of... he didn't really know. Not all there. He might be a bit out of it with fear. He was certainly shaking like a tree.

Terminator? Check. Jackbooted thugs chasing them? Also check. And now a fucking g-man after them? Check, damnit. It was like a bad dream. And in a way it seemed perfectly natural given the stupendously _frightening tense emotional gun-happy terrible horrible not-at-all happy _week he'd been having so far. He was on a ride he couldn't get off of, just enduring what came at him. He couldn't, he _wouldn't_ be able to handle shit like this much more. But it was cool, y'know? They got what they wanted. Information. That was the point, right? Information about their enemies and just how deep in the shit they were. Fucking useful, right?

He was biting his nails. Christ, he was turning into Derek. And god, he was _wet._ He felt fucking... Ugh. Stay on task, Johnny. You're still in combat.

Mike was leaning forward, almost fully over the steering wheel. He seemed made of energy, of tense, sporadic reactions. The wheel twisted to and fro like it was melded to his mind, pulling them around cars and pushing them ever forward.

"Mike," John said. He knew Cameron wasn't hurt. He wasn't even sure if she'd responded. It didn't matter, anyway.

Mike shook his head rapidly. No time to talk. He looked _mad, _mad as in _crazy. _Eyes were bugging out. It had to be the Terminator they'd seen. He looked out of his mind with fear. John was fucking scared too, for a variety of reasons. It all just accreted.

"Ok," John said to himself. "Um, turn the radio on?" He was rambling. Were they being chased? He couldn't get the color red out of his head, for some reason. God, he was out of it. Everyone and their grandmother was chasing him, out for his fucking skin. Robots, the government, and now some crazy anti-luddites. When he was a kid it had been scary, but oddly thrilling. He'd felt _way_ important, and because of that he'd survive. Like it was a book, and he was living in the story. The good guys always win in stories. And now he felt hounded. He was raging with all sorts of shit in his head, and sometimes...

He laid his head back. He was safe now. No need to worry. It's alright. There, there. He couldn't _stand_ death. He'd come close to _ending._ It was crazy.

Wait, he was in the front seat. Right. Cameron was in the back, and he was in the front. Cameron had shattered one of the windows so she could easily fire out of it. He was in the front. He could turn the radio on. He leaned forward and fiddled with the nearby dial. He should really get over this, because they were still in danger. But he felt blank. Everything...

Stop it. He turned the dial.

_"-liiiiiitle-"_

_"set the solar world on FIRE!-"_

Some orchestrated thing came on. John turned it back a bit, seeking the one he'd just heard. It sounded nice and loud. His eyes trailed up to the windshield for a moment, in passing. He never turned the dial.

The air knocked out of him as he was tossed forward against the dashboard when the sedan suddenly impacted the backside of a car. Horns blared. The sedan bounced and debris rained down to the asphalt. The top of his head bashed against the windshield and he felt blood sprinkle down. The world turned from black, to white, to red. Cameron flew into the back of his seat, which snapped nearly in half under her weight. Mike's chest ground against the steering wheel and he screamed in pain.

Then silence. Car settled back. John fell into what was left of his seat and he started moaning in pain. How fast had they been going?

"Mike, what the fuck was that?" Things were shaking, pounding in his head. Everything was all crazy. This... this was just _icing._

"Start the car," Cameron commanded.

"Mike?"

"_Start_ the car."

Some guy was getting out of the car ahead of them, bouncing up and down and waving his arms like a loon.

Mike settled back, breathing heavily. "Sorry, I... I'm out of it, we're moving. Going, I'm starting the car."

"Do it, Mike," John said. He looked around them and blinked as some blood trickled against his eye. Cars were piling up all around them. Traffic was... they'd hit traffic. Was why they crashed, sure. For some reason the energy was just draining from him, like he couldn't maintain a constant feel of adrenaline for very long. Like he was just deflating. His head _pounded now. _

"Yessir," Mike said. John laughed hysterically at this.

"YOU FUCKING KIDS RUINED MY CAR!"

"Start the car, Mike," Cameron said. John fell back against his seat, laughing at the guy.

"I fucking can't, t-there's too much."

"Go through them," she said instantly. John laughed at her insistence.

Oh god...

Christ, just focus, focus focus focus. Get a hold of yourself, John. You're still in fucking combat. You got spooked, _fine,_ but seriously now! GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF. Deep breath. He couldn't lock up like this, just go nuts like a psychotic and refuse to process it all. You're _not_ normal. You are _not. _Stop acting as if this is all somehow new.

Deeeep breath. He took a deep breath and turned to Cameron, his voice going hard, "Are we being chased?"

There was a noise of grinding metal a few yards back. John jumped and looked out the back window. Nothing but rows and rows of cars. There was another tearing sound, more forceful this time.

"Michael, get away from the wheel and let me drive," Cameron said. She gripped his arm.

"We're being chased," John said. "_Shit._"

--

They'd gotten into a green sedan, Galloway thought to himself as his car smashed into yet another vehicle. Green sedan. Boxy. Likely damaged. Sirens hooted several blocks away. Irrelevant. The gridlock of cars extended forward almost as far as the eye could see. He briefly weighed the option of abandoning the car his squad had taken and going out to hunt for the target on foot amongst the stalled vehicles. Car horns screamed incessantly. Green sedan.

"Move up," Galloway said.

They moved up, forcing two cars out of their way. They twirled back and smashed into their neighbors. The beeping reached crescendo, world-filling proportions. Galloway leaned out through his window and checked the immediate area. Lot of colors. Machine-like, assembly produced. Impossible from here to tell which one was being used by _him. _The man next to him nudged up slightly to his shoulder.

"Orders, sir?"

Galloway considered for a moment, surveying the scene. Green sedan- Ah, there. He grinned. A person was standing in front of the target. Galloway yanked the bolt on his M4A1 carbine and took aim.

"To the left, about thirty feet. Open fire."

--

"Is it a fucking jam?"

Michael's hand was clutched around the wheel, resisting Cameron. She'd probably take his stupid arm off if he didn't get the hint soon. John was fiddling with his hair, seeing which strands were matted with blood. Most of them, seemed like. It felt more abstract than painful.

The dude from the car ahead of them was bouncing around just outside, seeming to jump in rhythm with the beeping horns. He was demanding their information. Christ, they probably all looked stoned out of their heads except for Cameron. Cars ahead of them were moving up a bit; the gridlock was slowly unwinding, probably due to everyone's hurry to get away from the clusterfuck that was around their car. They were probably also being pursued, given the noises they'd heard. Things were slow and lethargic when they should have been bolting out of there. There was way too much stress and tension, no one felt like operating.

"Mike, let Cameron drive," John said. "Or me."

"Just waiting for this to clear up," Mike mumbled. He was staring off into space. He didn't want to do anything. Obviously pretty deep in thought, as that was what got them crashed to begin with. John thought that was pretty fucking irresponsible of him, locking up like that.

"Mike, c'mon," John said.

"Mike," Cameron said, "I'm driving."

There was a coughing staccato of sound somewhere behind them. The dude from the car ahead of them suddenly seemed to dance backward and toppled, blood spraying out from his torso. The backside window of the sedan blew out as a bullet pierced it. Cameron looked back through the shattered hole as John flattened himself out.

"_Shit!"_

Where talking had failed, gunfire succeeded in rousing Mike. The car lurched forward and maneuvered around several other vehicles, driving onto the sidewalk. Mike pounded on the horn to ward off the pedestrians who suddenly seemed to fill the area. People were bailing out of their cars to avoid being shot at. And... they were falling, twirling in... in pain, in... They were being _killed._

"What..." He stared at the scene in mesmerized fascination. Oh god, no. What the hell! What the hell?! He turned, "T-they're shooting them, Cam!" He pointed outside, almost as if he was the only one who'd noticed.

"They're not shooting _us,"_ Cameron said smoothly. All the same, though, she looked like she knew where he was coming from. He was babbling pretty openly now, unbelieving. Who the fuck were these guys?! That they could do... Cameron laid a hand on him, "John, we can't fire back, that would draw their fire."

As though to refute her, a few bullets clanged off the side of the car. "Fuck it," John said. He grabbed the MP5 and thrust it into her hand, "Your pistol."

Cameron unholstered her SIG and handed it to him. He racked the slide and used the barrel to break the window next to him.

"John, don't-"

He turned against his seat and leaned out the window, aiming. He was a fucking coward, no better than a sack of shit if he just cowered while people died around him. Innocent fucking people. He wouldn't do it, no matter how scared he was.

"John!"

"You're gonna have to put me out or help me, Cam," John said. He watched carefully for the muzzle flash that would signal which car was being fired from. They were still riding along the sidewalk. Everything was in anarchy now as cars tried to go every which way. The sound of screeching metal threatened to overtake the continuous pounding of horns. People ran and screamed in terror. John's knees were shaking like leaves, unused to position he was in. He could barely keep his aim straight. Christ, his head hurt. It felt _open,_ like... gaping. Still bleeding like hell, anyway. Just ignore it and focus... look...

Another loud, resounding cough. A flash of light -- there! Several meters away there was a blue SUV. It looked _friendly, _which was weird. Sky blue. A Yankees logo had been painted onto the hood, the front license plate read "I (heart) BBall", and an M4A1 carbine hung steady from the passenger window. Heartwarming. John threw his aim to cover it and opened fire. He shot five times before the recoil threatened to shake the pistol out of his hands. He took a moment to breathe, arms shaking. Had he even hit anything?

He jerked back as a bullet slammed into the frame of the sedan, just a few inches from his torso. He dived back into the car as a few more riddled the metal.

"Mike!"

"I'm moving this thing as fast as possible," he said. The pedestrians were thinning out; most of them were fleeing into the surrounding buildings. A few dozen feet ahead, a run-away car plowed through a group of trash cans --and a person-- and flew down an alley.

"Cam!" John turned around and grinned victoriously. She'd smashed her window as well and was busily firing off with the MP5. Hell _yes._ He leaned out again, pivoted himself over the top of the car and and started to add to the enfilade. The SUV barreled on past several cars, making a bee-line for the sedan. John aimed toward the windshield and fired off twice. He yelled out with something close to _delight_ as it shattered. Yeah, yelling at people, exercising, and crying were all good ways to blow off energy and spend yourself. Shooting felt _damned_ nice, though, when you got results. Felt like power. The SUV hit a storefront along the street and jumped back onto the sidewalk. John stared at it for a moment, waiting...

It backed up slightly, pulled ahead, and resumed its pursuit. He could see one of those black-suited assholes behind the wheel. John cursed.

"Get anyone?!"

"Not yet!" Cameron's gun clicked empty and she dropped the expended mag, "Get down, John!"

He pulled himself back in. "Mike?"

The resistance fighter stabbed the horn twice. Two women in bright red dresses were scrambling out ahead of them clutching several bags of clothing marked "GAP." A few sweaters and pairs of pants flew back and wrapped themselves around the side-view mirror. John grimaced as one of them fell. Her friend stooped to help out.

"Stop!"

Mike kept going, not changing course at all. They were about a few yards away from them and picking up speed for once. John didn't fucking care at that point.

"MIKE!"

He leaned over, grabbed the steering wheel, and forced the car to the left, barely avoiding both women. The car skidded and Mike elbowed John in the stomach. He had to fight to keep the car moving straight ahead, instead of wobbling and losing speed. John fell back against his seat and took in a long, gasping breath. He really wanted to hit back, but it _wasn't the time or place._ Not by a sight.

They kept driving. Almost like something out of a story, the street appeared to open up ahead of them. Cars were racing around, sure, but they'd cleared the gridlock, driven on past. The constant honk of horns lessened in prominence almost immediately... and gave way to the sound of sirens. The sedan bounced down onto the asphalt and started to accelerate.

"Jesus," John breathed. He felt really light-headed all of a sudden. "Uh-"

The front windshield collapsed into tiny bits of glass. Mike instantly leaned forward and shook out the remaining strands, which cut his hand up bad. He didn't seem to notice. The SUV was still hot on their tail. Behind it, another car (sedan) drove onto the street from the sidewalk. It seemed possessed with the same drive and relentlessness that was within the SUV. Oh, son of a bitch. It had to be that fucking g-man.

They picked up speed. Buildings, cars, everything just seemed to race past. Wind, without the obstruction of glass, blew openly in John's face, making it a struggle to keep his eyes peeled and alert. Only thing that stayed constantly, unchanging was their pursuer vehicle, which seemed almost fixed in the background. One of the thugs (or cultists, John guessed. They were crazies with guns, and they had _training_ to boot. Fucking scary) leaned out of the SUV and opened up with a carbine. There was a sudden, loud _pop!_ and the car started to screech onto the street.

It could only be one thing, but John leaned out anyway. One of the tires was dragging along, deflated and useless. He jumped back in to avoid getting side-swiped by an electric pole and yelled, "Tire's out!"

Cameron flew back in suddenly, the MP5 twirling from her grasp. She'd taken a few bullets to the chest. The carbine continued to send over hot lead.

Mike looked over. He looked pretty fucking tense, but he'd calmed down significantly since his freeze up. "You're shitting me!" Behind them, Cameron's eyes flickered and she pushed herself up like nothing had happened. She grabbed the MP5 and methodically loaded it.

"I wish I was!"

Mike growled, "We'll make it..."

John blinked. And nodded. Yeah, they would. Had to.

"Put some fire on them," Mike went on.

Cameron and John leaned out again and went to work on the SUV, which was rapidly gaining now. The driver ducked immediately as fire came his way, but his passenger suddenly withered and slumped. The carbine clattered onto the street and was crushed by the other sedan. Probably Cameron who made the shot. Yeah, totally. Not him. He breathed, fired once more, and leaned back inside.

"Who was that?"

Cameron shrugged, "I don't know." She looked around and dropped the H&K, "I'm out of clips."

"_Fuck._"

"The Browning," she said.

Mike nodded to his hip. John bent over and pulled the pistol out from Mike's holster and handed it off to Cameron. Mike nodded again to his pocket. Couldn't he just get it himself...? John shook his head and withdrew a few magazines for the Browning.

John looked back toward the pursuing SUV. It was slowly closing the distance, but it seemed a lot cagier now. They probably didn't want to risk losing more people, although they could basically _burn_ the stupid sedan John was in if the thugs just concentrated their fire when they got close enough. The passenger door came open and the dead --or wounded-- thug was pushed out. A guy jumped over to take his place. The SUV was getting almost directly parallel to the sedan's backside.

Oh christ. Three heads popped out in unison, two from the backseat and the guy in front. John saw one carbine and two submachine guns. The SUV stopped weaving and steadied. They were about to fucking enfilade the sedan.

"GET DOWN!"

John flattened himself just as the thugs opened fire. His head struck the transmission stick and he yelled out in pain. Mike screamed. He was shot, probably. Oh _JESUS._ He _was. _They kept going. The roar from the three automatics continued for a few more seconds until they expended themselves. John stared around the car for a moment. Bullet holes and spent cartridges littered the inside. He sent a look over to the dashboard. Oil was dropping pretty fast all of a sudden. Christ, they were lucky the whole thing didn't go up. And...

"Mike!"

Mike waved his hand, rising from cover, "I'm fucking fine, let me... let me drive."

"You... you're-"

"I'm _fine._" He pivoted his body toward John, "See?"

He was fine. What was...? Fuck, it didn't even matter. The world seemed to be spinning round and round, and John thought he was gonna be sick. He felt himself _winding_ up like a spring, just about to... They were gonna shoot again. They couldn't hold out against that kind of firepower. The center could not hold. Something had to give.

"Cam?"

"What?"

"Just checking." He laughed slightly. Of course she was fine... Christ, that whole shit was scary... He could just about feel them unloading, just...

"We have to get rid of them. All of them," Cameron said.

"No kidding, but we can't just _stop_, Cam._"_

_"_I know. I was going to suggest shooting them some more."

"Oh. Well, ok." That worked. Focus, John. He breathed in tightly and loaded the SIG. Make it fucking count.

They leaned out again and fired away.

--

Ellison was way in over his head. That was a fact. The cars up ahead of him had been locked in a five minute long gun duel and so far it seemed that two people had been killed. None in the sedan, thankfully. Ellison felt nothing for the deaths of the men inside the SUV. They were terrorists. What he _did_ feel was the certainty of his own death... should he get any closer than he was now. Yet at the same time, he felt as if he had no choice. Those guys had some pretty awe-inspiring hardware at their disposal. Homegrown? He hadn't seen any ethnicity indications, but... it didn't matter. John and his "pals" weren't going to hold out much longer, and they were useless to Ellison if they were all dead. And of his own conscience should they die and he just stood by? It didn't bear thinking about.

He was a Federal agent, not a vigilante... but things were shifting under his feet. Better to shift with them. He eased his foot on the throttle and tried not think about the damages he was going to have to pay for the poor woman he'd borrowed this car from.

--

Once, fire. Twice, fire. Thrice, fire. SIG-Sauer P239 with a capacity of... eight rounds. Or was it nine? Fuck. John was trying to keep count of his ammunition as he unloaded on the trailing SUV. It wasn't exactly fun, what with the wind blowing in his face, pounding headache, screaming sirens, dealing with recoil, _and_ trying to keep good tabs on his mag... Basically he didn't think he was being very accurate, all things considered. He'd gradually gone from aiming at the occupants to shooting at the engine. If he could score a hit that would cause an explosion it'd be a fucking happy day for everyone who wasn't a machine-obsessed cultist. So far he was having no luck. He felt that he wasn't even hitting half the time, which made him shit scared that he'd hit some innocent bystander instead of a gun-toting maniac. Cameron, a little ahead of him, pumped out bullets with all the caution and consideration of a five year old with a water pistol.

He fired again. Uh, what was that? Wait. Wait. Fuck, he'd lost count. _Fuck._ Uhh... Two heads popped out of the SUV, rifles held aloft. They'd scored a hit on one of them, then! There'd been three! Hell _yes._

They opened fire, which put a rather sour end to John's private jubilations. He pulled himself back in. Cameron's pistol clicked empty and she fell in as well. They all took cover again as hot rounds washed over the surface and interior of the sedan. John almost forgot to breathe after feeling a bullet whiz over his hair and slam into the dashboard. Cameron soaked up a few rounds for the team. She was gonna look like shit when all was said and done... no doubts there. When they stopped, John could barely call up the will to spring back up again. This wasn't gonna work. Those guys would eventually score a lucky hit, and they sounded as if they had all the munitions in the world at their disposal. They couldn't depend on the stupid cops for help, either. They had to get lucky.

Mike was breathing pretty heavily. That was all John processed at first, silently reloading his gun. Then he realized it was almost all he could hear. Just him breathing. It was fucking loud, wheezing, and-

"Oh, you fucker," John said softly. All he could think of was that his last thought had been the word _lucky._ How ironic.

Mike's hands were slumping off the wheel, drifting. He was practically doubled over. He was shot. He'd fucking lied to him.

"Mike!"

Mike turned slightly to him. Blood was seeping through his t-shirt, at about the upper midsection. Sweat seemed to rain from his forehead as he said, "I said... I'm fine..."

His entire body seemed to slacken and he slumped over against the wheel with a dull thud. John had just enough time to curse as the sedan swerved. It was like gravity ceased to exist, and that was fucking ironic. He could feel himself being launched sideways against Mike's suddenly still form. Cameron jerked back and one of the guns discharged. They hit a lamp post and gravity was restored in a fucking big way.

John went through what was left of the windshield and rolled twice on the asphalt. A car swung away to avoid hitting him and clipped the side of the SUV, which screamed past. It took John a while to realize that that was deliberate; the car belonged to the g-man. His arms were gravel coated and bloody; they screamed with pain, and he didn't notice. Behind him, he heard the sedan, abused and mangled beyond recognition, emit one last cough and the engine shut down. Ahead of him, the SUV screeched and toppled sideways after being hit by the g-man. Rolled and skidded several feet flat on its top and came to a halt. Ammo began to cook off within, turning the inside into a flash fryer for anyone still within.

The remaining vehicle pulled up to the curb several dozen feet away. The euphoria, the shock of seeing the SUV defeated wore off as suddenly as it came on. Pain, long overdue for its moment in the sun, came blockbusting in, shoving all other feelings away. John screamed, moaned, he thrashed abjectly against the street. His head felt like someone had taken an axe to it, his burns from yesterday were getting irritated by the sensation of being pressed against a hot street, his hands, arms bled like he'd stuck a vein, legs were all...

He started coughing and everything went bright red for a few seconds. He stopped screaming and just started to breathe, taking in gasping, hitching breaths, fighting to restore himself. One hand up. Drag it... drag it... push. Second hand up... drag it and push... He lifted himself up, got onto his knees. There was a lot of blood around him, in messy red splatters all over the black top. Breathe. Get up.

He looked up. A guy was getting out of the totaled SUV, his headgear missing. Blood dribbled off his body as he dragged himself out. The g-man, same guy he'd seen at the police station --he knew his fucking name, it had to be Ellison--, advanced over to him, pistol held high. The man whipped out his own pistol and pointed it listlessly toward the agent. Ellison's handgun spoke once in response and the man collapsed. On your knees. Slowly... slowly... Ellison was running toward him.

"Don't move, John! Do _not_ move!"

His ears were ringing. Could barely hear the man. The SIG was on the ground next to him. John absently took it and racked the slide. He'd reloaded, but forgot to rack it. That was alright. He let it snap back and raised it with wavering arms. Ellison was sprinting, he was a few feet away.

John shot early. The bullet exploded harmlessly against the ground, not even close to the agent. John raised his arms, shielding. Ellison stopped and yanked the pistol from his grasp. He took John's collar and shoved him back against the ground. John groaned, and he slowly tried to push himself back up. Ellison jammed a foot against his stomach. Everything was like jelly. Ellison was reaching for a pair of handcuffs --every agent must have one, John supposed-- and started to unlock them. Ellison was shaking like a tree, he looked so excited.

John leaned his head forward, "H-hey..."

"Quiet."

"Read my rights?"

Ellison sagged, "No."

"Why?"

"Where's your mother, John? Where is she?"

"Not telling," he said quietly.

"Charley already told me everything, John," Ellison said. He used his foot to scoot John onto his back and he bent forward, "Every detail, he sang like a canary bird. They've sent a SWAT team to pick her up at your house."

John thrashed, "FUCKING liar, get off!"

Ellison was silent. He forced John's wrists together and linked one of the chains. John pulled his other hand away and buried it under his chest. His legs kicked up against Ellison's ass, but the agent just took it without wavering. He tried to pull John's arm back up, and he had a fucking powerful grip, too. Even so, John resisted, although he doubted he could hold on for long.

"John!"

"Get off!"

The agent gave another hard pull. John screamed in pain as his shoulder cracked back. His arm went limp. Ellison pulled it over with a grunt.

"Just give up, it's over!"

"No, _no, _you don't fucking-"

Cameron smashed her pistol butt against Ellison's head. He let out a slight, surprised grunt and turned around to watch her for a second. She offered him nothing but an ironic smile as he slumped to the ground. Every hair on John's body seemed to stand on end. _Holy fucking shit._

Cameron dragged Ellison off of him and snapped the link around John's wrist. He silently rubbed his head once down onto the street, sighed, and let Cameron help him up. Without hesitating he scrambled to her and hugged her tightly. A lot of blood from her chest soaked onto his jacket, but he didn't care. He inhaled sharply and let his head rest against her neck. Cameron's arms wrapped carefully around his waist and pulled him in slightly. They stood like that for a moment, the only sound being the howling of sirens in the distance and a sudden, explosive cacophony as the SUV burned.

"Thanks," he breathed, "Again."

Cameron pulled away, "Any time, John." She smiled pleasantly, as if she'd just seen a butterfly. It was sort of weird, but John didn't care. It was affection in her own way, her own right. "We have to go."

"Where's Mike?"

Cameron steered him toward Ellison's parked car, "He's still alive. I'll bring him over."

"Christ, poor Charley," John said, mostly to himself. "We can't give him a break." Guy was shot, of course they'd have to see a doctor... and Charley was the only one they could trust. Poor guy. John giggled manically, even though it wasn't funny at all. Christ. He was freaking wet all over, with blood, sweat, piss... The giggles turned to loud, braying sobs as he wandered over to Ellison's car. He had to lean against the hood for a few seconds to let his breath catch up with him. He turned the side-view mirror toward him and stared.

His hair was clipped a bit, all matted against his forehead, either with sweat or blood. Tiny traces of red had rivulated down his face. There was a pretty angry looking pink wound near the top of his scalp. His lower lip seemed to tremble convulsively, and his right eye twitched. Blinking it caused pain. He hiccuped another sob and climbed into the car, settling on the passenger side. He absently felt down to his crotch. He'd pissed himself again, probably when he hit the ground after getting ejected. He smelt like fear. It was all over him. He remembered that smell. Hadn't had it in a while, but he remembered.

But _fuck_, man, they'd MADE IT. They were getting the fuck out of there, they'd _won._ They had an idea of where to go, what to do, who their enemies were, assets... it was fucked up shit, of course, but they could plan now. He didn't know how intimately tied these people were with Skynet. Or how Sarkissian really factored in with it all. They'd have to... talk again, he supposed.

And what? Go through this tomorrow? Another day of emotional bullshit with his feelings toward Cameron, with Mike, with gunplay, with his fucking elders...Go through this tomorrow? How many people had died? He felt empty now. Like, really, really empty, just drained. He wasn't even shaking, he was completely still. Things were out there, and his death would make them so happy. So, so happy. Go through it again? What made him think otherwise? This week had been fucking bullshit every day. He was coming apart. _Apart._ He couldn't stand much more of it. The center could not hold. Eventually he'd drop dead. Today he'd almost been taken by the stupid cops. His luck _had_ to run out, sooner or later. Only a matter of time.

And he was so weak. Here he was all screwed up over it, thoughts revolving in his head like they couldn't escape. He... he so wanted to be the _man _everyone wanted. But he didn't think he could do it. He feared for his stability of mind, his life, his feelings. He so feared. He couldn't do this much longer. _No._

He was very silent, and very still for a while until Cameron hauled Mike into the back of the sedan. Mike was bleeding pretty heavily. He was conscious, but the words he was saying didn't make any sense. He was probably out of it.

Calm down. Stop being a walking drama. You're _not_ normal. Stop acting like it.

He calmed down. "Where're we going?"

Cameron got into the front seat, "Home. Call Sarah."

John took out his cellphone. It looked pristine. He let out a sigh and lowered his head down onto the dashboard. Car started up. John hit a few buttons.

"Who the hell are these guys, Cameron...?"

Cameron looked at him. "People who must all be killed."

Well. John pressed the phone to his ear.

"Hey, mom," he whispered. "I'm ok."


	22. Coming to Terms

**Flight is Right**

Chapter Twenty Two: Coming to Terms

Author's Note: A thousand "thank you's" to CIsaac, for acting as my beta reader for this chapter.

Something shattered in the kitchen. Derek Reese looked away from the television, but he made no move to get up. After sitting (or sleeping) on the couch for eight hours on end, any movement would be likely to send him swirling back into spasms of pain. Getting up during mornings was typically a half-hour long process, which lengthened to almost _two hours_ after Tuesdays escapades. Running around all gung-ho like that didn't exactly do wonders for the hole in his stomach. He'd been way too eager to show that he could contribute, and now he was suffering for it, and at little to no reward.

His right hand did go for his Glock, though. He racked the slide and yelled, "Sarah?" Muted the television, which was currently burbling out the wonders of some car for whatever company. He hated car commercials; they made absolutely no sense half the time.

"What?" came a curt, barely measured reply.

Derek blinked. That was just great. Why was she mad _this_ time? Usually she saved herself for when the "kids" got home, as if to remind everyone about her status as warrior mother. Derek concealed a sigh (never could be too careful) and cleared his throat. "Something break?"

"A plate."

"And... _you_ broke it. Right?"

"Yes."

Derek stopped talking. He laid his head back against the cushion and waited. She'd come. That was just the way she operated. She'd want to vent. He turned the TV sound back on and watched impassively as a bunch of kids in a bunch of buildings tossed a bunch of water balloons at each other. He watched for at least two minutes (with the aforementioned state of affairs never changing once) before the advertisement announced its product as "XBox 360." He sighed and muted the TV again. And waited...

Not for very long, actually. Sarah Connor came along a minute or two later. They stared at one another for a few seconds before she waved her hands. He sighed and brought his legs forward, giving her room. She plopped herself down on the couch and stuck her hand out. _Remote, please._ Derek spread his hands. He hadn't been able to find the stupid thing for days. Instead of getting up, as he'd expected, she remained rooted to her spot and just stared at the television.

"What's up?" Derek asked, trying not to let the imminent confusion in his voice show up _that_ much.

"What do you have on?"

_Alright, sure. Procrastinate._ Derek looked over at the television set. Some other commercial. They just didn't end. He sighed. There was no real use in lying: "Cartoon Network."

Sarah's right eyebrow traveled up as far as it was capable of reaching. "You're kidding."

"Nope. I loved this shit before Judgment Day hit."

Sarah laughed, and sounded surprised, as if she hadn't expected to find _anything_ laugh-worthy in this conversation. That made Derek grin. "Never took you for the type, Reese." She looked at the screen, "Remember anything?"

He remembered tons, most of which would make him feel _really_ embarrassed if he mentioned them, like... _man,_ Ben-10, Boondocks, some anime on Adult Swim... already he could recall a few names for the latter, and he hadn't thought about this stuff in _years._ "Boondocks, mostly. And that wasn't even on it."

"What do you mean?" Sarah asked.

"Oh, it was on Adult Swim. You know, the thing that comes on later? It's mostly dubbed Japanese stuff."

"Never heard of it, but I know John..." she paused, rolling her eyes theatrically, "I know John used to watch some of that when he was fourteen, on this channel."

"Heh, really?" Derek scratched his chin, suddenly pensive. That made him feel good, actually... knowing he could relate to John on a level --however silly-- that didn't involve Kyle.

"When we were living in West Fork with Charley. He acted like he didn't watch it, y'know, always turning off the TV when one of us walked in. I always wondered why..."

"I was the same way with my mom," Derek said, as if _that_ was an answer. "It's mostly an escape."

They looked at the screen. Some comically large purple dog was gesturing wildly toward a wooden door. Derek was only half paying attention, lost in his memories. Larger than life heroes, doing incredible things, doing funny things, outrageous things... It _was _a good escape when he was 15, apart from baseball (and all the other players were stoned half the time.) He didn't have to stand around, listening to his father yak about how he was losing his job to artificial intelligence. Or his mother, who was patient with her husband, but really short with her kids. He could talk to Kyle about it. The kid was impressionable. But mostly it was just an escape to be enjoyed by himself. An escape he found himself pining for, but mostly as a fancy at this point. Talking about it with Sarah made him feel good, in a way he couldn't quite define. This whole conversation was silly, but Derek appreciated that. Sustaining dead seriousness for days on end took effort. Things were looking up today.

He should probably talk to John about it. Cartoons, right? Savior of mankind likes Batman or what? Might be a good segway back into a relationship that didn't involve so much hostility. It would depend a lot on how much Derek could reasonably remember and, if he was going to go by Sarah's memory, how much John was willing to talk about it. Yep, things were definitely looking...

Ah, shit. "What's going on?" he asked, remembering why Sarah had come over here to begin with.

Sarah sighed and looked over to him. Whatever she'd come here to talk about, it was clear that discussing cartoons was infinitely preferable in comparison. "Tell me if this sounds familiar to the John _you_ know; he found out about a mobster from the hotel, being held in a police station near here. Without consulting us, he and Cameron _went there_ and got mixed up in a terrorist attack on the station that just happened to hit while they were inside." She paused, her eyes going slightly, almost invisibly wide.

Jesus Christ in a fucking hand basket.

"Is he alright?" Holy crap, how did he manage _that?_ The kid was such a fucking _screw-up_ at times.

"Y-yes," she said, her voice oddly distant. She looked as if was remembering something herself... and nothing too pleasant, either.

"Did they find the mobster?" That was a good bit of business on John's part, admittedly. Grilling the guy for information.

She shrugged, "John didn't tell me. He says he's gonna explain everything later. After we deal with the casualty he's bringing us."

Derek blinked. "They're bringing someone _here_? Is he nuts? How bad's the guy hurt?"

"I don't know. He says we'll probably need Charley."

"Oh, great."

"No kidding," Sarah said softly.

Derek eyed her. "How're we handling this?" They needed to organize before they got home. A lot of stuff, actually, needed organizing, and not just physically. Their response to this toward John, toward Cameron, toward the casualty they were hauling... with luck, John had gotten something good out of it. If not, he was truly in for it. Derek added, "Are the cops after them?"

"No. And we're going to call Charley. Then we'll fix him up, and _then_ I'll... talk to John." She sighed. "We'll see what happens from there."

Her territory, that. He didn't want her to be rough, obviously, but it _really_ wasn't his place to tell her how to handle her own son. He nodded to her and motioned for her to help him get up. She grabbed his arm and pulled him up, which elicited a wave of pain to convulse through his body. He tried his best not to show any reaction and smiled tightly at her.

"Not gonna be much help with the doctor stuff," he said.

"Just help me get things organized..."

"You alright?"

Sarah looked at him and spread her arms out, "Couldn't be better. My son doesn't listen to me anymore, and he's making dumb mistakes as a result."

"The attack could have just been bad timing, Sarah."

"That's not the point!" She looked ready to shove him back down, fresh anger positively radiating, "The attack _did_ happen! Go look on the fucking news if you don't believe me. He didn't come back to us. _No,_ he decided he knew best, went in without support, and he almost _died._ See the connection, Reese? You still have a fucking brain to think with?!"

He nodded at her. "I see the connection, Sarah. But you're not gonna be there forever. He needs to-"

She shoved him back down onto the couch. His head struck the arm with a dull thud, and his vision went a bright, angry redish white, an amiable companion to _even more pain._ He groaned, pretty much the only noise he could make at that point.

"You tell me shit like that again and I'll pound you. Hard. When you're able to get up, find the bandages and anesthetic. Should be in the bathroom."

"You're... deluding yourself," he murmured.

"What'd you say?!"

Derek waved a hand in her blurry, general direction. For a second he thought she'd hit him again. Would probably knock him out, too. Nothing happened for a few seconds, and he could feel the tension, which was nearly tangible, just _floating_ above them. She was so _right, _and she'd be damned if anyone decided to threaten that little bit of security she still had. Everything she'd grown accustomed to, her and John's lonely kinship together, his vulnerability and desire for her to control him, the safety they'd probably enjoyed for four years following the attempt on John's life... all of it was going to pieces around her. She was no longer in control, she just refused to accept that.

In the end, she didn't hurt Derek again. Instead, Sarah stalked off into the kitchen without another word. There was another crash as she smashed a plate. Jesus...

Derek got up a minute later and stared at the TV, his vision slowly --very slowly-- clearing up. The dog was sleeping peaceably in its owners lap, with tiny z's trailing from its head and everything. Lucky son of a bitch.

--

"Mike? Hey, Mike? Mike! Mike?"

"He's unconscious, John."

John Connor turned to Cameron Phillips and shook his head. Doing that sorta hurt, though, so he stopped after a second. A lot of things hurt right then; his head... his head... head... Headaches were really the worst. Motion, watching things move around hurt, anyway, and he had to keep his eyes closed for most of the trip as they drove along. "No... I thought I saw his eyes open, y'know?"

The Terminator looked over at him, "Just because his eyes are open doesn't mean he's awake, John."

John stared at her for a moment in mute rage before turning back. His pounding headache throbbed ever worse... it was almost blinding, just... splitting into his head. Could barely think, let alone argue with her over that. The guy was dying, and that was basically all there was to it. John pressed his hands against his head as a couple of cop cars sped past, sirens whining and then echoing in their passage. He'd heard a couple of choppers a few minutes ago. People were standing around on sidewalks, looking every which way. Looking for smoke, telltale signs of police mobilization, anything that would reassure them, fulfill both their fears and their interest in what had happened. In the wake of the police cars came two giant black monsters; S.W.A.T. vans.

They were so fucked. They'd been... _right_ there, at the scene of the whole attack. Nearly gotten killed. And then the stupid fucking chase. _Right_ there. People would describe him, would tell the cops about what _they_ saw. Obviously the cultists had more to worry about than him, but... they were probably all dead now anyway. Except the Terminator. He wondered if anyone had seen it. They were so fucked, really. Sarah would move them in a heartbeat, talk to Enrique, get new ID's... it was a fucking mess. He didn't know what to do.

"H-hello?"

John wheeled around in his seat --OW!-- and stared at Mike. _That_ was the first coherent thing he'd said since being shot. John looked him over for a second, his mouth falling open slightly. His stomach sort of did a turn, which was really unpleasant... though not nearly as unpleasant as being shot in the spleen. Mike was losing a lot of fucking blood, it was practically soaking his entire torso. John had been trying to pound his head for a while now, perusing his memories for anything useful on _spleen damage_, of all things. He hadn't had the heart to ask Cameron yet. Goddamnit, there was so much... so much to _do, _why did Mike have to fucking speak and _worry_ him like that?

"Hey... hey, hey? Mike?"

Cameron was very quiet. Terminators generally took offense when proven wrong.

Mike stared at him. "I'm really cold."

He didn't whisper, his teeth didn't chatter. He didn't _sound_ like he was in pain, but what the hell did that matter? Why the hell did he bother _coming_, anyway?! He could have stayed with his fucking foster sister and go on with what he was doing. He didn't _have_ to come with them. Goddamnit!

John gulped and leaned forward, "It's ok, Mike. We're going to our house, right? We'll be there soon. You'll be _fine._"

"I'm alright, John," Mike said. He sounded so fucking woozy, like he... Jesus Christ. He was probably dizzy from blood loss. Right. Blood loss. Spleen damage, particularly from bullets, could cause the organ to rupture. Spleen was a reservoir of blood, it protects against infections of the blood... and it may have ruptured. Like, exploded. In that case, death was a huge fucking likelihood unless you got surgery real quick to remove what was left. Oh god.

John turned back around. No blankets around, nothing. He couldn't... He shrugged himself out of his hoodie --it had a bit of blood on it, and a whole lot of sweat, but otherwise it was ok-- and tossed it back to Mike. Mike just let it flop down on him, didn't even... _fuck man._ John leaned back over and started to arrange the hoodie so that it'd cover the wound, his shoulders, arms... he was fucking babbling, he realized, mostly just reassurances. He was shaking, he was _so_ fucking afraid, it wasn't even funny. The guy was gonna fucking die. Why'd he have to come? It made no sense.

He turned back and slapped a hand over his mouth, his mind swirling with all sorts of thoughts, none of which were really reconcilable with each other. Ok... ok. Take charge. It's alright... God, he felt gross. When this was all over he'd change and take a shower, a _long_ shower, just sit there and get fucking cleaned. Mike was fucking dying. What were they gonna do? They couldn't move again, it wasn't worth his... John's protection. They _had_ to fucking fight back, they couldn't get all hung up over him, moving to Mexico and all, _away_ from Skynet. They couldn't do that. Christ, it _hurt._

John sighed. "You ever get the feeling that... I dunno. Nothing's going your way?" He looked at her and nearly smacked his forehead. Of course she didn't... get that feeling. If anything, that just ran contrary to her very purpose.

"Sometimes," Cameron said. "I searched for you for seventy two days. At times I felt it was probable that I'd never locate you."

He blinked. "Well, I feel like... I'm just going crazy, y'know? This whole week's held nothing good for me."

"It'll get better."

"Will it? I just want a slow week for once, none of this again. No... gunfights, no stress like what I've had to go through. It's way too much." He sighed. "You know, I just want to stay focused."

"This is our focus, John. Those people may well have been the ones who ensured Skynet's genesis to begin with."

He glared at her, "_EVER _since you found that fucking picture, I've been in a fucking _personal hell_, Cam! _Everything_ is fucking me up, I can't... Don't you get it?" He leaned back against his seat and turned away.

The car turned down a street. They were getting into a more housed area, more suburban. Coming home. She looked at him again, sitting there, all pathetic looking. He had to look pathetic. She was probably wondering whether to use the human bit or the robot bit. The personable one that'd make him feel all glowy and ignorant, or the one that'd crush him and make him understand. He wasn't sure which one he really wanted.

"Events in your personal life aren't necessarily connected to our mission, John. Your depression is likely a result of emotional occurrences, probably at school and admittedly between you and I, that happen to be exacerbated by what we do to find and destroy Skynet. In other words, it's probably a coincidence. Not necessarily connected."

John shrugged, "Oh, yeah, that's great. _Thanks._ I couldn't come to that myself. Just let me vent, alright? I'm upset."

She looked away and went on driving. Didn't look exasperated, at least. Mom wouldn't let him get away with a rant like this. John sighed, "Just want a slow week for once. Again, I mean. I hate all of this shooting, I... wish..."

"That you weren't growing up?" Cameron asked.

John stared at her, wide-eyed. His headache seemed to go straight to the back burner. All the _hurt_ just seemed to go right back, too. What?

"What?"

"It's simple, John. You're afraid of growing. You were used to Sarah doing everything for you. You depended on her for guidance, and now, at your own insistence no less, you're becoming more active in our mission. As a soldier. In conjunction with your recent personal experiences as a young adult, you've found it not to be thrilling, but horrifying, and now you doubt yourself as a result. Instead of living this way, you want to reject it in favor of your old life, even though you know that's impossible." She spared a second to flash him a glance, "Don't worry; it's natural. The important thing is that you're trying, at least."

He really, really wanted to curse at her. Was he that transparent? "Wrong," he said softly. "I don't..." Fuck it, what did _she_ know about natural?

"Denial is also natural."

"_Fuck-"_

"Enough, John."

"You're _wrong! _I can _handle_ this, I'd just like a bit of _quiet_ for once! It's not the mission, I mean... I mean, it is, kinda, but it's also me, right? I just have to..." he stopped and laid his head down on the dashboard. He was trying really hard not to cry right then. That was pathetic, but it was true. The truth hurt. It was because she was right. Totally, completely, utterly right. And he was frightened of that. He wished it'd go away.

Mike was staring at him. John tried not to notice. All silence for a few minutes after that. John's headache gradually lessened in intensity as he sat there and fumed.

He just wouldn't think about it. That would just fuck him up even more, thinking about what Cameron said. He needed to calm down and focus on what was going on. Things were too important to just... worry about himself. He turned back in his seat to check on Michael. He wasn't awake. He looked...

Oh christ. They'd put makeshift crap on the wound, cleaned it as best they... they just didn't have enough. Hadn't _done_ enough. He leaned over and placed his hand on Mike's very cold, very pale throat. Find... uh, the vein... where was it again? He didn't know this guy. And he was dying. John strangled a loud sob in his throat as he felt around for the pulse. He got nothing. Oh god. _No, no, no!_

Mike was really cold, like _scaly_ almost, just very, very cold. Icy. John couldn't feel a thing. No pulse. He could barely handle this without going to pieces, which was totally pathetic. When they got home he'd collapse, or something. Felt _so_ nuts. It was _his_ plan. To go into the police station, get the information. He'd given out orders, cause it was _his_ plan. And then he'd taken charge once things went to shit, albeit haltingly, with Mike. _His_ plan. They'd retreated under his orders. _His_ plan, his plan, his plan. Mike was dying, and it was _his_ fault, because it was _his plan. _

"Cam... I think..." He sighed and turned his head down. Oh, Jesus Christ... no... he felt...

His hand brushed over Mike's jugular and he nearly cried out in surprise as he felt it throbbing under his finger. John's head whipped back up, mouth slack. Oh, _fuck_ yes. He laughed. He was alive! Still kicking, hadn't gone out yet! Wasn't all bad. Could still work! _Goddamn_, he was a depressed little sonofabitch, but it wasn't all bad.

"... I think he's still good," John finished. He frowned at Mike. "But we gotta hurry, ok?"

"No need."

She stopped the car. John blinked. His house was right there. Oh. He clicked the car door open without a thought and stepped out. Looked around, almost clinically, for watching neighbors, oncoming cars, anything that could potentially give them away. He could see a moving figure coming down the street, almost sprinting, but there was nothing else. Cool.

"How's he doing?"

Cameron came around the side of the car, Mike cradled in her arms. It would have looked kind of sweet if the guy wasn't covered in blood. Cameron gave him a sidelong look, "Poorly. Come on."

They ran for the house. John spared another look toward the approaching figure. Getting closer. Guy appeared to be holding a box. It was probably nothing. He reached into his pocket for the keys... and blinked as the door opened. Alright, good. Good that he'd called ahead, they could move faster. He ran up onto the porch.

Sarah walked out. Her expression was hard and scrutinizing. It seemed inflexible, practically chiseled from marble. She looked past her son and examined Michael.

"Mom!" John said, not heeding any of this. He practically leaped into her arms, wrapping his hands warmly around her back. Cam was so fucking right. He depended on her. She was his lighthouse, the north star, she always _had_ been, and he would love it if she always _would_ be. He was dependent on her, but it didn't fucking matter. He loved her, and-

She pushed him away with a snarl. John didn't even react, his eyes just flew wide. She grabbed his hair with her left hand, and then smacked him in the face with her right. Open palmed. His head jerked back. Behind him, Cameron stopped for almost a full second. John could hear a slight _whir_ in her system. It was really weird. His very first thought was that she'd try and kill his mother to protect him from any further harm. But she had to know it was just...

It really fucking hurt, in a lot of ways. And to John, that was _all_ it was. Hurt. The stinging pain of the blow faded almost instantly, without so much as a fare-thee-well. Cameron eased past him like he was something to be avoided (even a Terminator could understand a situation like this) and... he could hear Derek barking orders to her, telling her where to put Mike. And they were alone. The entire weight of the day, maybe even the whole week, came crashing down like a run-away freight train. John started sobbing uncontrollably, almost apoplectically. He felt like folding up and collapsing right there. Why why, why'd she do that? She didn't- have to... he... Everything just bore down on the heels of that single blow, brought it all into focus. He was scared. He'd made mistakes. He wanted out. That was all true... all facts. He didn't need _this_ on top of it all. It felt like abuse and retribution all at once.

"Mom..." he gasped. He looked up at her. She looked... she looked... god, not _sad,_ but just like...

"Go inside, John," she said, almost tonelessly. "We'll talk later." And she pointed on toward the door. She wasn't even looking at him now.

He stood there and swayed, just _shaking_ all over the place. The problem was that he didn't know whether he deserved that or if it was uncalled for. It hurt either way, and to him that was all that mattered. It gave him his chance to react, and he seized on it with both hands. He could barely see, it was all too blurry. Could barely breathe, he may as well try to breathe underwater it was so hard. He leaned against the wall and just... cried. He didn't feel any self-deprecation, as he usually did. No embarrassment. He was just venting himself, he didn't care.

And Sarah stood there like a sentinel, her arms folded, licking her lips. She was staring at the lamp fixture they had. And at the floorboards. And at the car they'd stolen. She inhaled sharply, violently, and exhaled softly, haltingly. She tapped her foot against the floorboards. Couldn't leave. Had to wait for him. See it out. It was... _calculated,_ and that was screwed up. And she knew that. Practiced it on a regular basis, willingly, all logically. But now... what was the point? _Her _point was well and made. There was no more use in acting this way. She looked at her son and sagged, her lip trembling ever so slightly. Mother won out over commander.

"Oh, John," she whispered. She grabbed him and hugged him close to her. John reacted with all the instinctual readiness of a baby reaching for mothers milk, burying his head against the crook of her neck. He knew it was about as good as bowing down to the oppressor, but at that point he didn't care. Sarah rubbed his hair and shook her head, "Look at you..."

"_I'm fucking sorry, mom..._"

"Hush... relax..." she sighed again. "I shouldn't have done that."

He shook his head against her shoulder, "Nah, no, you were... Look, I'm... sorry..."

"No, John," she said, and that was pretty much all there was to it. "Go inside. You're ok."

"Mom..."

"You're ok. That's all that matters, honey. All that matters."

He didn't want to let her go. His arms seemed incapable of it. He _needed_ that comfort. He took in a long, shuddering breath and looked at her. She stared back at him, grimacing. God, she really hated seeing him get all... emotional, like this. He really didn't know why, she just hated it. Maybe it made her feel bad, or made her feel bad about _him._ But... but it was alright. All he had to do was calm himself. She'd apologized. It was ok.

Well... no, it really wasn't, but now wasn't the time to dwell. He took a back step from her and looked away, absently wiping his face. There really wasn't much else left to say. He walked past her. He'd calm himself down inside. The door shut behind him.

Sarah watched as he went on in. She stared at the door for a few seconds longer before turning to meet an almost breathless Charley Dixon, looking for all the world as if he'd run a mile in less than two minutes. That estimate probably wasn't too far off, Sarah reflected.

"Hey," she said mildly.

"What the hell was that?" Charley asked. Probably referring to John. She hoped he hadn't been close enough to watch her son break down in detail, or she'd never hear the end of it. He was carrying a box with him. It was labeled with a nice, reassuringly big red cross.

"Nothing. How's Michelle?"

"Suspicious," he said flippantly, as though it were just a drop in the hat. He was rather dead-set on emphasizing just how much they were screwing with his life. "Where's the patient, Don Connor?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"No, Sarah, I'm not. I asked you to leave me out of this."

"You didn't have to come, Charley," Sarah said, although she knew she'd lied when they made that agreement in the first place. She didn't care, though. Her mind was in so many other places at the moment. She jerked her head toward the door. "He's inside. John's hurt too, but not as bad."

He glared at her like she was something out of Hell. "You..."

"He brought that on himself, Charley. If you want to blame anyone, blame him. Or me, for not being more strict." She grabbed his arm and looked her ex-fiance in the eye, "Either way, there's someone in there that needs saving. Do what you do best."

"You're a real bitch sometimes, you know that?"

She released him and opened the door. "Yeah. I know that. It's what _I_ do best."

They nodded at each other, essentially coming to terms.

--

"Rescue, my fair Lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue!

The king enacts more wonders than a man,

Daring an opposite to every danger:

His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights-"

Penfold interrupted; "A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!"

Laughter rippled through the small crowd. David Nossbaum sighed and put down the pocket-sized _Richard III. _"Penfold. You're supposed to wait for me to finish..."

Penfold shrugged. His chrome shoulder blades slowly formed twin jutting peaks parallel to his head, and then lowered; just as mechanically. "I'm sorry, I became excited."

David folded his arms, standing several feet away from Penfold, "Well, I know how you love to act..."

An ironic chuckle from the audience.

Penfold's bespectacled eyes shined. Literally. "Yes, I love to act."

David placed a hand on his chin and stroked it. He was a clean-shaven man in his early forties, in possession of a medium, unimposing build. His face, which had been described by some as "just plain nice lookin'," was smooth and, to a degree, rather pudgy. No one minded him for that, however. It simply added to his charm. His eyes were a shade of hazel, and they stared with a sort of storied wiseness that analyzed, but did not seem to judge. "Seem to" being the operative phrase, of course. His hair ended along his forehead in a ruffled, uneven sort of way that seemed unbecoming of an adult man with black hair. The informality was something he valued, though. He was wearing a sweat shirt that read "California Institute of Technology."

Standing across from him was Penfold. Penfold was three feet tall. His head was about the size of a small textbook, and it gleamed plastic white under the fluorescent lights that shone down from the small auditorium's ceiling. Pinprick eyes peeped out from the top of his face. They were obscured by glasses. Penfold's torso was as white as his head, albeit with tinges of metallic chrome at the places where his limbs touched the body. Emblazoned on Penfold's chest was a logo that read "SRL."

David leaned toward the robot, "Why don't you tell them what your line means? If you want to be a good actor, you have to know what the line means, Penfold."

"Alright." Penfold turned away from the president of the Sacremento Robotics Laboratory and addressed the audience, "Richard's line is meant to represent his desperation; he is willing to give up all he has worked to gain so that he could save his life by retreating from the battle."

The robot said this --as he did with all the things he said-- in understated monotone, without a hint of personality or charisma. There were occasional pauses in its monologue as it inserted an appropriate phrase here and there. This done, it turned back to David.

"Very good, Penfold..." David turned to the audience, "Who agrees with that?"

Several people at the front of the audience raised their hands. They were all older... or executives with a controlling interest. The rest of them, either college students or people who obviously had not read _Richard III, _did nothing. David expected that. He'd grown to live with such ignoramuses. And how eagerly he awaited the day when they'd all disappear.

David raised his hands, "Alright, fair enough. Now if he said something completely different, would you still believe him?"

No one raised their hand.

David leaned in. "Moore's Law posits that the number of transistors within a computer chip will double, exponentially, every two years. In two years, I guarantee that, should a robot like Penfold present an incorrect meaning for any given Shakespearean quote... you may not believe him, but you will find him _very_ persuasive. And two years after that? You will believe him. I guarantee it."

A slow clap from the audience, starting enthusiastically with the executives at the forefront and ending begrudgingly with the students near the back.

"That concludes our seminar for today. Penfold will accept your questions now. Be sure to phrase them as deliberately as you can, or he may not understand what you're talking about." He smiled, "As always, reach for the future... and have a very nice day."

Loud clapping as David walked off the stage. Penfold took a few waddling steps toward the center and waited. Several students and a few suits were lining up near the microphone. As much as they may not explicitly care, a lot of them were smiling and looking toward the stout little robot in wonder. How could such a thing exist, that it could banter with a human being without pre-recorded lines? David smiled. And they thought _that_ was impressive... If only they knew _what_ he knew.

Some of the execs were coming forward to surround him, some with skeptical grimaces, others with hungry, shark-like expressions. Of their number, only one was just smiling pleasantly... serene.

Two men --Philip Morris and K.T. Alan-- raised their hands at the same time. They grinned at each other, expressions reading "back off." David also grinned. He shook both their hands with his left and right.

"No need to get possessive, gentlemen. I hope you enjoyed that."

K.T. smiled broadly, "_Quite_ a bit, Mr. Nossbaum, and I don't care what you say about Penfold's personality; his kind would sell easily on any market."

"They don't mass produce well, unfortunately..." David said, "...Yet, that is."

K.T.'s smile became wider. Philip, on the other hand, gave David nothing but a cocked eyebrow, "Interesting ventriloquy."

"Oh, have a heart, Philip."

"Scripted conversation? Pre-recorded lines?" The businessman leaned forward.

"Not one bit."

"Bullshit," Philip said.

"You don't mess with Moore's Law," a new voice said. David smirked as Catherine Weaver stepped into the throng of executives and gave David a firm pumping handshake. She was wearing her usual white garb, as informal as David's. "A few years ago, I would have believed you, Phil. Now I'm..." she smiled at David, "not so sure."

Philip waved a hand, "Yeah, like _that's_ professional byplay."

"Excuse me?"

"You're the CEO of Cyberdyne Systems, Catherine, and there's no one on the planet who holds more stock in Cyberdyne than _him,_" he pointed at David.

They all laughed, "That's certainly true," David said, "But you're wrong on all other counts, unfortunately. Nice seeing you." He moved on to Catherine. K.T. and Philip went off, arguing.

"Businessmen," Catherine said, sighing. "Mind you, I'm a business_woman_, and there's a big difference."

David grinned once more, "Of course. If you wanted to congratulate me, make it quick. I've got some... business to attend to. What'd you think?"

"It was cute," she said enigmatically, for all the world as if that were her answer.

And he nodded, "Yes, it was."

They hadn't spent a dime on it, of course. He acted so flippantly toward creations like Penfold because they were, quite literally, nothing important. Catherine nodded to him and floated off toward the question line. David sighed. He took out his cellphone, bade farewell to the nearby executives, and pushed through a pair of double doors. The hallway, bestrewn with motivational posters and clippings, was empty. David stuck his hands in his pocket and started off toward the elevator terminal, whistling.

When he reached his office on the top floor of the Sacremento Robotics Laboratory, he'd worked up the nerve to call the number. He silently peeled off his sweatshirt and flung it toward his desk. A bunch of copied reports sea-sawed to the floor, but he didn't care one bit. His hand continually ascended to his mouth, ready to chew the _nails_. He was nervous. Always nervous when they played their hand. So many risks, so little pay-off at times.

This week represented an unforgivable setback. Daniel was dead, Sarkissian wasn't answering any of attempts at reaching him, and the Turk remained still out of reach. The enemy was revealing himself slowly, but with a ton of force. They hadn't experienced anything like this in years, and it was _frightening _David. Today they'd taken steps to take back the playing field. With a shuddering breath David placed the cellphone against his ear.

Had to find that computer. Connor was an objective, but he was too much of a problem to find. All they had to do was focus on achieving what was necessary, and all would fall into place. Protect the harbinger of salvation. That was their goal, and he was _damned_ if-

A click. Silence. Dead silence. David closed his mouth, but he couldn't keep his breathing off the line. Who...?

An iron voice. "David Nossbaum."

"Samuel?They found you! Praise be!" _Yes!_

"Cameron Forsythe has restored my functionality."

"How are you doing? Is anything damaged at all?"

"I am functional," Samuel said tonelessly. The clarity... unbefuddled by emotion... it never failed to send chills of awe down David's spine.

"Please, please tell me what happened, Samuel. I get down on my knees" --and he did-- "and beg you."

He could almost _feel_ the nod from Samuel's cold, unblinking skull. All ritual. The Terminator demanded it as a constant, unending show of loyalty. David... none of them minded it, obviously. "Your squadron attacked the North Hollywood police station and suffered fifty percent losses in apprehending this unit."

David resisted a curse. Losses were completely unforgivable, whether they be Daniel or a mere acolyte. Death among their number only served to decrease the amount of people who'd be left when the apocalypse arrived. "All from policemen?"

"Negative. The assailants were a cyborg of unknown origin, a known Tech-Com combatant, and John Connor."

...

"What?!"

"The assailants were a cyborg of-"

"Forgive me, I know what you said, Samuel..." Oh... oh god. It was him. Already waging his unholy campaign even now. This was _horrible._ "Are they dead?"

"Negative. They escaped and were pursued by Adept James Ford Galloway. Adept Galloway was terminated."

David was pacing around his office, barely looking where he was going. None of this had been expected... oh god, not even _close_ to expected. Galloway... most of the squad dead... _CONNOR._ This was terrible... it was all barely worth the retrieval of Samuel, but he couldn't say _that_. Goddamnit! "A-alright, did you get a visual of Connor?"

"Affirmative. The images were transfered to your mainframe two hours, twenty five minutes, and seven seconds ago."

He rubbed his forehead, and a trail of sweat cascaded to the floor. "What do you... what do we do, Samuel? I am at a loss. I did not expect this at all, please, a thousand apologies, forgive me!"

"You are forgiven, David Nossbaum. You will not participate in John Connor's apprehension. I will handle that personally. You will concentrate your resources of recovering the Turk artificial intelligence. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes! Thank you. Thank you, Samuel." He paused to kiss the phone. "What about Cameron?"

"She will remain with the remnant of the squadron, which is under my command."

"What about your... uh, y-your skin, Samuel?"

"I will wear coverings."

"Yes, of course," David said. Samuel had it all well in hand. This was still a catastrophe, and a frightening one at that, but with one of Skynet's agents handling it, as they had this whole time? It would be resolved in days. They knew Connor's rough whereabouts now! Looked at from a certain angle and you could call this a boon. He'd been stupid to react so... Yes...

"Um. Anything else, Samuel?"

"Negative. Goodbye."

David thumbed the "off" button, feeling somewhat better. They were safe. Connor was found, and he'd be dealt with alongside whatever army he was forging. David was under the yoke, and the yoke would seal him and the rest of the believers, make them safe. As long as they did exactly what was asked, they'd be safe... yes...

_Everything was FINE._

He grunted and sighed, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. In the meantime, he'd continue to try and contact Sarkissian... find the Turk.

And, in between even _that_, he'd continue to cow and impress these clueless executives with toys.


	23. Useless

**Flight is Right**

Chapter Twenty Three: Useless

Author's Note: Thanks to CIsaac for beta reading.

Derek Reese looked up as John Connor shambled into the kitchen. He was stooped over Michael, laying prostrate on the kitchen island. He was still, perhaps blessedly so, unconscious. Cameron Philips was arm deep in the medicine cabinet. John lingered at the threshold for a second as Derek ran his eyes over his nephew, which made the teenager feel rather self-conscious. He'd just had a bit of a meltdown, and that was probably... obvious. Should he really care, though? Honestly? More important things going on here, right?

"Where's your mom?" Derek asked. He sounded as if he wanted to say a lot more than that, and John didn't really know _what._ Are you ok? It's good to see you're alright? How could you be so stupid? The guy could be seriously tight-lipped at times.

John looked behind him. Oh. He thought she'd... Huh. He turned back, "Outside, I guess." Looked at Mike, "How's he look?"

"It's bad," Derek said bluntly, turning back. John walked over to the table and stared down at Michael Oxferod. Almost nothing had changed. John's hoodie was wrapped tightly around his torso, obscuring most of the blood, his face was plaster white and he was barely moving. Eyes were shut like vaults. At best you could probably call him a train-wreck, and John didn't even want to _consider_ the "at worst" part. He was too afraid that it'd be _dead._

He found himself laying an almost protective hand on the guy's shoulder. Rubbed a bit... softly, comfortingly. Whether he liked it or not, he knew Mike was basically his responsibility now. He'd got him shot. Brought him along. Ignored his admittedly well-founded doubts about the police station. So he was John's responsibility. Well, in theory, anyway, because he was already failing _hugely_. He wouldn't even be helping with the...

"You guys called Charley, right?"

Derek nodded. John turned his head back toward Mike, "Ok, that's- oh."

Mike's eyes were open. They were pretty wide. Awake. Aware. Staring at John. John stared back in mild shock, like he'd just witnessed something impossible. They eyed each other for a moment before Mike bent his head forward and stared at his chest.

John's breath must have been coming in short, because Derek prodded him on the shoulder, "John?" He looked at Mike, "Oh, shit."

"God," Mike said. His voice was a rasp. "I feel so _light._"

John leaned forward, "Hey, shhh... You're fine. Go back to sleep." He jerked his head slightly to Derek, "Get mom."

"SARAH!"

"Oh, man," Mike said softly. He coughed. Blood spurted out from his mouth, once, twice, and then he was making some sort of gargling-

It was like a bomb going off. "AHHHH! AHHHH!"

"Jesus!", someone said. _John_ said. Mike started thrashing on the table. He kicked his legs out spasmodically, his body bounced on the table like something was pushing him up from underneath, arms splayed out and one hand was grabbing John's arm like he was a life preserver. His grip was surprisingly powerful; fresh blood started to gush from John's forearm. He noticed none of it, felt no pain. He was pushing Mike down with all his might alongside his uncle. Blood seemed to just _jump_ everywhere, from Mike's mouth, the little spaces where the hoodie wasn't so constrictive, and...

Oh, the screaming was the worst. It was _exactly_ that, like a bomb going off in your face, all surprise and shock. He was yelling as if he'd been _damned, _like he was a creature without hope. It was shrill, it was _terrifying_ to be in front of, to be _there _and hearing it. It was like pain personified in human form.

"JOOOHN! CAMERON, IT... AHHH!"

John gripped his arm and started patting it, he didn't know what the fuck to do. Anything that'd comfort him. Anything that'd... his eyes were like saucers, almost unbelieving. "It's alright, Mike! Mike!... Hey? Mike, it's ok, you'll be fine, relax!"

"Jesus Christ, move it! Move, Johnny!"

"HELP, JOHN!"

John whipped around and nearly smashed his head into Charley Dixon's. His almost-father grabbed his shoulders and practically dragged him away from the table.

John's arms remained outstretched for a few seconds, as if he was still right there. He was still talking, spouting baseless comforts, trying to comfort Mike. He was fucking panicking. His voice started getting all high and insistent. This wasn't even like Derek. He'd just yelled at people, there was a semblance of anger there, of resistance. Mike was just in pain, like he could feel nothing else. _He was dying._

"Mike... Mike, c'mon, you're... you're fine, Mike? Mike, hey..." Oh, christ, he was going nuts. "Mike!"

No response. Mike wasn't even attempting to articulate himself anymore, it was just like... white noise, impossible to figure out the _screaaaming._

Charley yelled something to no one in particular. A syringe was in his hand. Sarah was holding Mike down with Derek.

"Mike... hey... relax..." He bumped against the counter and he just stopped moving. Stopped talking. Stopped thinking except for one thought. _HIS. FAULT._ He was dully aware of Cameron standing next to him. His hand was in hers. He did nothing. He didn't even think about it. His mind was consumed in Mike's blood-curlding cries.

Which, eventually, stopped about a minute later. John looked up in surprise as soon as that happened because... he thought, maybe, Mike was actually dead. Like that was his fare-thee-well. But no... he was settling back on the kitchen island, his shoulders going slack, face serene, it was like looking at a blank slate. Anesthetic. The silence was deafening, void-like.

Everyone was quiet for a bit, like they were _all_ surprised. The tension in the room was like a fog, it was tangible, you could _grasp_ it and see it contort in your hands. Implication, doubt, worry, fear, guilt. It was pretty heavy shit. And then they started to move through that fog, mindful --or not-- of the consequences of doing so. John blinked and pushed Cameron's hand away.

"Jesus," he whispered.

"He'll be fine," Cameron said, almost in passing.

"Stop that. Don't..." He sighed, "I'm ok. Let's go."

"Where's the, ah, the wound?" Charley asked, moving around Mike and watching him. He didn't seem too put-off by the blood. Natural, he was a paramedic. He was used to it, likely. He was barely breathing. He was the dude John had seen running in the street, then. Sarah called ahead. Maybe she'd done that while thinking to herself, _"When John comes in, I'm going to hit him."_

That was stupid. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Definitely. He was still fucking... stop it. John absently felt at his right cheek and said, "His spleen."

Charley hissed and stared at the boy on the kitchen island. One thing John always really liked about Charley; he was a really cool customer. He could get vindictive when he wanted to be, but that was always deliberate, planned. He didn't just _accept_ things, but he didn't whine about them, either. He tried to make changes. And acted cool.

This wasn't cool, though. Certainly didn't warrant acting cool, which Charley _didn't._

"How old is he?" he asked, holding his head with his hand as if it was liable to snap off at any moment.

"Sixteen," Cameron said at once.

He looked at Sarah and smirked, "You get 'em early, Sarah. Real _fucking_ early. Who the fuck is this? And get my scalpel."

Sarah looked like a lion trapped in a cage. A really, _really_ small cage. More pointedly, she looked like she wanted to kill him. "I don't even know who the fuck he is, Charley." She looked at John as she stooped to pick up Charley's box. "Paramedics were _converging_ on that place, and you couldn't leave him there?"

Charley laughed. He probably thought that was ironic as hell.

John cleared his throat --it was pretty full-- and-

Derek beat him to it, though, "I know why he did it."

"Did I ask you?"

"No, but I think you're suffocating your son here. Give him a break."

John sighed, "Derek..."

Derek raised both his hands; a slight one toward John, and a somewhat more urgent one toward Sarah, who looked ready to toss the scalpel she was holding into his head. When they were both silent, he gestured to Mike, "I know him. He's in Tech-Com. Corporal, I think."

"Scalpel, Sarah?"

Sarah absently handed it to Charley. She blinked. "How'd..."

"Does it really matter right now, mom?" John said.

She sagged. "Later it will. You bet your ass, John."

"His spleen's ruptured. It's gonna have to come out."

"Jesus..." Sarah said. She gripped the side of the table and turned to everyone else, "John." She thumbed toward the hall, "Take a breather."

"Thanks." Christ, he needed to change so badly. Did they even notice? He found himself looking at Mike as he started toward the hall. "Is he...?"

"I don't know, Johnny," Charley said. "We're gonna do everything we can."

"Alright." He really wanted to help. But he knew he'd just get in the way. That was probably stupid of him, thinking that, but right then it seemed really... _right._ That was all there was to it. "Just, uh, holler if you need me."

Sarah continued to dole out instructions. Cameron was gonna help them operate. Derek was supposed to do his rounds of the house. Meanwhile, Sarah and Charley would work to save Mike's life. And even Mike had a purpose here. He was _the_ purpose. And John? John would change his pants. Take a shower. Do _nothing._

Same old. Fucking. Status. Quo.

--

Stop the car. Foot off brake. Pull the transmission stick to park. Touch keys. Grip keys. Turn keys. Car turns off with a dull rumble. Look outside.

"Beep bip bop," Hicks said to himself, voice full of sardonic grimness. All mechanical. His movements were deliberately stilted as he turned his head to watch the house. He tried to visualize it like _they_ would. TWO STORY HOUSE OF... see? Couldn't do it. Christ, why was he _here?_ It wasn't worth all this pain. He was crying a bit, and he didn't even realize it. She was dead. So dead. He hadn't even given himself time to react before, and now it was... _now_ it was too late to even bother. She was dead, and that was all there was to it.

The house was... grey. Boring. Two stories tall. Shuttered along the infrastructure. But the car was there. The car he'd tailed them in. While Galloway got himself killed acting all overzealous (WHY?) he'd followed them with all the calm he could muster in a boring, nondescript sedan. For... what? Why bother? WHY BOTHER? Those fucking machines weren't gonna _reward _him. God, why did she do it? He'd gone along with her like it was nothing, like he didn't know it was _fucked up shit._ She'd been so earnest about it.

Well. Galloway told him outside the police department, a little _after_ the woman he loved got dead; _Hey, Hicks. You mind getting in ANOTHER car and track those kids, in case we all, y'know, get stupidly killed? _It hadn't exactly been like that, of course. Galloway was a formal bastard. _Was _being the fucking keyword, you know? Cause Galloway _was_ stupid, and as a result of that, his _current_ status was dead. Like Hicks' wife.

_Yessir, Adept Galloway, _Hicks had said.

_Right, and if we all, I dunno, get spectacularly killed, you're gonna follow them all the way home and report them in using your phone, right?_

_Sure thing. _

And that was exactly what he did. Followed them home. And now he was supposed to take down the address. And then he'd call the SRL hotline and give the code phrase that they'd memorized. He'd say the address. And then a bunch of fanatics would descend like vultures to shoot everyone inside until they were dead.

Except he _wasn't_ going to do that anymore! He wasn't a fucking fanatic. No, his _wife_ had been the fanatic. HAD BEEN.They'd met up while working for Blackwater during that mess in Fallujah. They shot rifles together. Got fucked up in the head together. Left together and decided, hell, why not get married? And they did. And one day, last year, she'd seen one of _them_. A Terminator, just _randomly,_ by chance. All an accident. One thing led to another and people were telling her that the world was about to end and that... they should _be protected. _Jesus Christ, he'd been such a fool for not leaving her then. But no. They said they needed experienced guns and all Hicks had cared about was having enough money to eat food with. And he loved her too much. Every day, "Honey, when are we leaving these freaks?" "Soon, dear." He was such a fool. She was as screwed up as the rest of them, and now it was too late. Funny, if you thought about it.

But no more. He wasn't gonna take their shit. He wasn't gonna report anyone. No, he was here for revenge.

He was here to kill everyone in that house. By himself. He was here, now, for himself. When he was done here, he was gonna _leave._ Maybe go down to Mexico. Find some village to stay in. Wait four years for the world to end. And then he'd kill himself. That was his plan for the future. Real lovely, eh? That was _it,_ though. He had no reason to go on. They had all his money, his _house,_ his _job,_ his _life._ Half of his life got shot in the head by some cop. A cop who just happened to work for that shithead Connor. Probably not a cop at all, but what did it matter?! He was _dead,_ they were _all dead. _

Fuck the machines. Fuck Connor. Hicks had been stupid, and now _other_ people were gonna pay. And _man,_ that felt like something good.

--

After a shower and a change of clothes, John was at least starting to feel like a human being again. Didn't necessarily make him feel any better, of course. Mike was still dying, last he'd seen. A quick glance into the kitchen and there was blood _everywhere._ And of course, John still had the unfortunateness to be endowed with a _head, _and a _mind._ He could still _think._ It was funny. Being alone with his thoughts, a week ago, had been something he liked. _Any_ privacy was something he liked. And two days ago, he'd started to dread things like that. He'd decided he wanted to be around other people, you know, to distract himself. And now that he'd shown that he couldn't do anything even with the remotest competence, he hated that too. So now _everything_ was...

Christ, there he went. Stop bitching. Let it roll... He flopped down on his bed and shut his eyes.

_Ah,_ something weird, though! Just _popped_ into his head, completely unrelated. All the dreams. They were like prophecies. The last one, for example. His mom told him to talk to her after he'd been been shot by the T-1000. Did he do that? No. And now she was smacking him around. Would anything be different if he _had_ spoken to her? Maybe!

Did that mean he was gonna run, though? That seemed to be a common theme in his dreams now. Running, flight, that sort of thing. Maybe those four people in the first dream were accusing him of being a coward. Maybe that was it. Kyle... Sarah... the T-800. Yeah. The first one was Kyle, in the dream about Judgment Day. Guy who'd fixed him up. That was daddy. John couldn't even remember what he'd looked like, or his voice, but he knew it was his father. His father had told him to stick it out.

And the third one was probably the T-800. The good one. The protector. Maybe he'd be seeing that guy soon enough, in another dream. He still didn't know the fourth guy, though. With hope, he never would. He wanted to forget about all of that. Dreams weren't meant to be prophetic. And sure, he wanted to run away now, but that didn't mean he _would._ Nah, he wouldn't be able to call up the balls. He loved his mom too much. And how would he live without Cameron? No, he was gonna continue down his path to NEUROTIC hell and like it, too! God, he just wanted to be over with it. Find closure. Get back to how things had been. Calm himself down.

Too much shit going on...

He turned in his bed and looked around the room. And out the window. Nothing. Twilight slowly descending. No cars, no kids... All silence. Alone, with his thoughts. And, if he wanted, his imagination. He briefly contemplated locking the door... but that'd be very stupid.

If not that, then music. Sure. He got his iPod off the nightstand and selected a random song. Put the headbud on and laid back. Had to compose the story in his head. What would happen if Mike died? How would he fucking live with himself if _he directly got someone killed?_ That'd be... stop it...

Music started. Fast, but very smooth. The man's voice was melodious and rich, full of vibration and feeling. John had thought the guy was black at first, but a quick check on wikipedia told him that he was white. Kind of surprising, but cool at the same time. John's head sank against the pillow. Breather. Sure. He could do that. He turned the music up real loud.

_"If you'll try to refrain, I have this to explain, my boy lifeline is the wind and the rain! Baby, can you dig your man? He's a righteous man, but baby, can you dig your man?"_

It continued on like that for a while. He sank into it. Let it be all he was for a while, oh, if only for a while.

Someone must have knocked, because the door flew open suddenly. John blinked and waited. Derek poked his head in. He looked relieved to see him there. John pulled the headbud out of his ear and turned down the volume.

"Hey," he said.

Derek walked in, "What're you up to?"

John smiled sadly, "Not much. Exactly as I was asked."

The older man sat down on the side of the bed, and he sighed. John absently scooted his legs away from him. The teeanger cleared his throat, "Anything... uh, happen today?"

"Nah. News cycle is worse than I remembered. I ended up checking... other things." And he smiled conspiratorially at John.

John chuckled, "Too much information, Derek. Way too much."

They both chuckled. It sounded really hollow. And then came the awkward silence, as ensured as the fact that day would follow night. Derek looked around the room as John fidgeted on the bed. Eventually Derek ended up saying, "It wasn't what you think. I don't think your mom would pay for that stuff, even for you."

"I always have the net," John said.

"You get viruses that way," Derek said. "In 2011, it's even worse. You couldn't go on one porn site without a trojan showing up thirty minutes later."

"Derek, c'mon..." He rolled his eyes, unable to stop himself from grinning. This was... well, yeah, it was _dumb_, but it was also kind of cool. "So what were you watching, then?"

"Cartoons."

John laughed, "Badass future soldier Derek Reese... loves his cartoons, huh? Was the kitty poster your idea?"

"Nah, that was Sayles. He's kind of... he was an idiot. Quirky, you know." He changed the subject away from his dead friends, "So, what's your favorite?"

"What?"

"Your favorite cartoon, John."

John stiffened, "I don't have one. I don't watch a lot of TV."

Derek stared at him, raising his eyebrows. He'd talked to Sarah. Oh, that was... ha...

"Dragon Ball Z," John said, caving. He quickly clarified, "Used to be my favorite. I don't watch cartoons anymore."

Derek glared. "You're kidding me."

"It, uh, used to be good. I mean, back then it was the, uh, new thing. I liked Transformers, too..."

"Uh _huh._"

John was smirking, "I don't judge, Reese."

Derek shook his head, the very face of seriousness, "Well, I _do._ I've lost all respect for you, John."

"I don't know what to say," John said mildly. He settled on laughing his ass off. And, almost as if he'd planned it, Derek joined him. Of all the things they could have had in common... that was too funny. He couldn't even remember what had been so appealing about that crap, and it didn't really matter, either. He smiled warmly at the older man, poking him slightly with his foot. "How 'bout you?"

"Well, things get steadily ridiculous from 2011 onward, so I tended to just watch Adult Swim, y'know, with the more mature stuff. Older stuff, usually."

John giggled, "You just used past and present tense in the _same_ sentence."

"Time-travel's a bitch."

And more laughter. Christ, he was... was he _happy?_ Man, he didn't have to be a neurotic whiner _all _the time, right? No way. Christ, shit like this made him so _mad_ that he'd jumped to conclusions about Derek a few days ago. So stupid of him.

Eventually they subsided. A statement like that was usually a good end to that sort of conversation. John turned a bit in his bed and looked toward the hall. He sighed.

"You alright?" Derek asked.

"Sure."

"Yeah, right."

Oh, god. _No._ John looked at him, "Derek, gimme a break." He tried to pass it like it was nothing important. Made himself sound all casual.

"No. Talk to me. If you won't talk to anyone else, at least do that. I don't have a stake in this." He prodded his leg, "C'mon."

The "cool" act collapsed like a _Jenga_ set. John sighed, "I... I'm not gonna..."

"You may as well get through me first, John. Your mom's gonna be a lot tougher." He leaned forward. "Talk to me. I'll tell you a secret if you do."

"Are you kidding?"

"Nope. Talk, John."

"I don't..." _Jesus._ The transition from bullshit banter to serious discussion was screwing him up. "Christ, Derek, it was... it was just a whole bunch of stuff, alright? I saw... they executed some guy in front of me... I let him die... and then Mike was yelling at me, and, and there was... I mean, then he got shot... he's fucking dying, and y'know, it's my fault. I planned it. I didn't come back. I..." He gasped for a sudden breath, even though that hadn't been long-winded at all. And then he started again, voice starting soft and rapidly becoming higher and more feverish. "I-I can't articulate it. It was frightening. I felt like I was gonna die, I felt like I was gonna get people killed... and I _did_, y'know? I fucking _did,_ they shot that mobster, I was talking to him, and, and I was picking the lock on his cell, and they came in and, I-I hid, and they _shot him, _Derek!"

"Survivor's guilt," Derek said softly.

"For him _and_ Mike. He's gonna die... he's gonna die, and it's... _my_ fault. _That's_ the thing. It's not fucking survivor's guilt, Derek, it's _actual_ guilt. It's _MY_ fault." He was sort of pulling on his bed sheets with his hands, bringing them up toward him. The side Derek was sitting on merely tugged listlessly. John gasped and tossed the fabric away, "You realize how many people we've killed this week? I lost count. We weren't doing this before, when it was just _us_ and Skynet, that was..."

"That's not your fault."

"I'm just saying! It gets too much, it all piles up together, and... then I just... collapse."

Derek shifted his feet up on the bed, sitting indian style, "You're stronger than that. You told me that some people never give up. You're one of those people, John. I should know."

John shook his head. He hated being in the spotlight, like this. His eyes were practically burning, his chest felt... like, _full._ He had to clear his throat every few seconds as he spoke; "No, I'm not the guy with the... oak leaf cluster, Derek. I'm not that guy. You're more like that guy... Sarah's more like him. Not me."

Derek sighed, "Well, whether you like it or not, that's your life, John."

"Tell me about it..." Tears comin' on down again, "... fuck, sorry." He was such a pussy.

"Hey, relax. We're just talking, John." Derek didn't look as uncomfortable with it as Sarah had. John sort of liked that.

He sniffled, "See? I should make a... a drinking game out of it. I'm too... I mean, I've got the theory of being a leader down pat, but that doesn't work when bullets are flying, when people get killed. I panic, I... I'm just not _him._"

Derek smiled, "You aren't yet. That's why you have your mother, and that's why you live like this, John. You'll learn. You can do it... I've seen it in you. It's natural to doubt yourself, I mean..." He sighed. "When I was fifteen, the world just... exploded. And I lived with y- with Kyle, for months... with little food, no contact... He wanted me to lead him, but you know, I was just fifteen. Just _that_ age. I didn't think I could do it... but I eventually... I did. I had to."

"I don't know if I can..." John whispered. He looked at Derek all imploringly. _Please stop. _For some reason he'd found security in thinking he wasn't cut out for this. That was his safety-net, where he could persist in his beliefs without ever wavering. To have someone refute all of it was... unreal to him.

"I think you will."

"At least you believe in me." John smiled haltingly, placating, "That's... that's good. Thanks. Thank you." He nodded at his uncle.

Derek sighed, obviously not liking the hastened end to all that. John really didn't want to talk about it, though. Derek could spout all the inspiration he wanted, but John _knew._ There was a difference. He looked at his uncle. "Secret?"

Derek frowned. "Just one thing, before I do."

John nodded.

"You like the, uh... the Terminator, right?"

"Cameron, Derek." Oh god. What now? This conversation was going in a zillion directions at once.

"Yeah, sure. Cameron. You like her? Like, _like_ her?"

John blinked. "No. Course not. That'd be..."

Derek smirked. It wasn't a nice smirk.

"...dumb." And the sad part was, he agreed with that. It _was_ dumb. Didn't make it any less of a truth, but it was dumb. Right?

"Yeah, no kidding. And that's why you don't. Because _Cameron_ is a liar. She's not just a pretty face or a nice body, John. She's not just the thing that gets you a hard-on. _Cameron_ doesn't have likes or dislikes, she just has... objectives. Programming. It's all _calculated _in that screwed up little 'mind' of hers. You see? You know that, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. I... sure, Derek." He nodded.

Derek nodded too, just as easily, as fervently. He was reaching into his pocket. "Here, let me show you-"

John leaned his head back, like it was something poisoned, whatever Derek was about to show him. Like it was radioactive. He didn't want to see it, whatever it was, and yet...

"John!"

He looked up. Sarah. Derek froze. John cleared his throat, his eyes anchored to his uncle's pocketed hand, "IN A MINUTE!" He motioned to Derek, "C'mon, what do you have there?" Christ, _secrets_, man. How could you resist?

The resistance fighter removed his hand. John, eyes wide and suddenly needful, probed over Derek's pant leg, looking for a bump, something in his pocket. What the _fuck?!_ "Derek! Don't do that, dude, c'mon. What's this have to do with Cam- Cameron?"

"Not yet," he said, "Go see your mom. I'll show you later."

"Derek!"

Derek got up. "It's nothing important. Trust me, go on."

"You fuck-..." John sagged. "Later?"

"Later, John." And then he was out the door.

John stared wide-eyed as he left, almost completely unbelieving. What could he have wanted to show him? Why couldn't he just do it when Sarah yelled?! Goddamnit, now he'd... ugh. No use in caring. He should purge it from his mind for the time being. Forget about it, that way it wouldn't _eat_ at him like a plague, you know, _wondering _what it could have been. He got up from his bed and shambled toward the door.

_Fuck_, he hated secrets.

--

John poked his head past the corner. The kitchen was much as he'd left it, with the exception that it was perhaps a bit more bloody. It _always_ seemed to get a little more bloody every time he looked at it. Charley and Cameron were hunched over Mike's still unmoving form, cutting, pulling, mending... doing all they could to save him. It was rather tragically ironic that a Terminator, who by definition wasn't supposed to care about _anything_ on an emotional level, and a paramedic who didn't even know Mike, were the ones actively involved in healing him. Although this was _stupendously_ trodden ground for John, he felt incredibly useless.

He moved on into the kitchen, averting his eyes from the operation. Surgery didn't make him squeamish; he'd seen too many impromptu operations performed in Latin America for it to effect him much anymore, but he didn't want to look at it anyway. His mother was standing a little off to the side, her white shirt splattered with traces of blood. John's hoodie was wrapped up in her arms.

"Yeah?" he said. Maybe the interrogation was finally coming. That'd be fucking _swell._

Sarah tossed him the bloody article of clothing, "Someone tried to reach you a minute ago."

John stiffened. Oh man. No one _ever_ called him. He reached into the hoodie and withdrew his cellphone, which had a bit of blood on it. Christ, they'd have so much cleaning to do tonight... all of this blood, right? Jeez. He checked the caller ID.

"818-796-844," he read aloud. Looked at Cameron. He thought he remembered her talking about a built-in phone memory for Los Angeles. Jeez, that had to take up a _lot_ of space...

Cameron responded without looking up from what she was doing, "Westin, Philip. North Hollywood, 1566 North California Street." She paused for a moment. "Cheri Westin called you."

Oh. Right. He'd given her his number in lab. In case they had to share homework, or something. Jesus Christ, what had Mike told her?

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

"Who's Cheri?" Sarah asked.

"My lab partner," John said simply. Best to leave it at that. He was careful not to look at Cameron.

"Why would she be calling you?"

"Why does anyone call anyone, mom? Jeez, she probably just wants to talk about... school, you know."

Sarah raised her hands, "Then talk. And after you're done talking, go outside and get rid of the license plates on that sedan."

"Alright," he said. He sighed. "Call me if you need anything."

Walked back to his room. As soon as the door was closed, he started to chew on his nails and hissed as he bit already torn skin. He went on doing it, though, almost unconsciously. Cheri called about Mike. You know, her _foster fucking brother._ Someone she cared about. Someone who was _dying_ on John's table. She was wondering where her brother was, and John had to explain... _that_ to her now, because lying would be... he couldn't do that.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair and hit _dial._

There was a response almost immediately. "Hello?"

A males voice. Older.

"Hi... uh, Philip?"

"Yeah. Who is this?"

"John Baum. I'm Cheri's lab partner."

"Where's Michael, John?"

_Oh shit, oh fuck, oh-_

"Uh."

Silence from the other end. He couldn't hear any breathing. John tore the phone away from his ear for a second and strangled a loud gasp in his throat. He brought it back a second later, "Uh. H-he's here, Mr. Westin."

"What's he doing, John? He said he'd be back hours ago. Let me talk to him."

"I... uh... He can't. Talk, that is. Can't talk, he's... he's busy."

A pause. "Busy doing what?... Oh Jesus..."

John blinked. Guy had a suspicion already? About what?

"Nothing, Philip. He-"

"Don't call me Philip. Is he...? Are you two..." A hiss. "John, let me talk to him. Whatever he's doing, tell him to stop."

Just hang up. _Hang. Up._

"Can- can I talk to Cheri? Please?" He hadn't expected to talk to this guy. That fucked him up, threw him _all off. _JUST hang up!

"_No_, you're talking to _me,_ John! Where's my fucking son? What are you two doing, huh?"

HANG UP.

"Ph- Mr. Westin, just calm down and listen. Please. I have to tell you something."

"_Save_ it, pretty boy. I'm checking the phone-book, and then I'm coming down there. I'll pull him off of you if I have to. Boy can't keep his fucking paws to himself, I can't fucking believe it."

OH, JESUS. John rubbed his forehead, coaxing a bit of pain from the wound there, "Dude! You-"

_Click._

"Fuck me," John muttered. That phrase struck him as painfully in character with the perceived situation, though. He blinked. Culture shock.

"CAMERON!" he yelled.

"What!"

"What's _Cheri_'s number? _Her_ number, you know?!"

A pause. "781-4418!"

"Thanks!" He dialed it in. He had to waylay this before it got out of hand. Dial tone droned on for a while. John started tapping his foot anxiously against the floor. Pick up, pick up...

"Hello?"

"Cheri, hey!"

"John! Oh, Christ, there you are. Where's Mike? Dad's really worried and we-"

"Cheri, shut up a sec." Before she could say anything --whether to accept that or call him a rude prick, he didn't care-- he went on, "Mike's _really_ hurt. Ok? We were near that police station when the shooting started. H-have you been checking the news?"

"Oh my god. Are you kidding me?"

"I.. wish I was, Cheri. I'm telling the truth."

"Was he shot?!"

"Y-yeah, he is. He needs a hospital real bad. I tried to reach you, but I got your dad. He, uh, went all ballistic, I couldn't..."

"How bad is Michael?"

"H-he got shot in the spleen, my friend, though, my mom's friend, h-he's helping us fix him; he's a paramedic!"

"You didn't- Why isn't he at a hospital?!"

"I don't know! Me and Cameron panicked, alright? You can come over if you want, just-"

"John! How bad is he?"

_Fuuuck._ He whispered it. His thumb was hovering over the little red button that would end the call. He could barely take this, the near accusations, he _hated it._ He wanted it to _go away._ Why... why...

John smacked his fist into the wall, "_Look,_ Cheri. Just get your father, and come on down here. We just panicked, I don't know. You can take him to a hospital. I _need_ to talk to you when you come, though."

"John, y-you didn't answer me." She sounded like she was crying. He felt like he couldn't _breathe._

"He's dying," John said, nearly croaking, "He's really, really bad. There's blood everywhere, he was fucking delirious before, alright? D-does that answer it, Cheri? I'm telling you the truth. He's _really_ bad."

"We'll be there in five minutes."

_Click_ the second. It took almost all of John's willpower to keep himself from tossing the phone against the wall. He was on the verge of tears again. _No. _

Alright. Be cool. Take charge. The conversation seemed to have a clarifying effect, though, like it made everything just... crystal, in his mind. Mike was really hurt. There'd be consequences to that. People who cared about him would look for someone to point at. They may have to move, and... and, and, and it was all his _fault._ Nothing else mattered.

OK. Calm. Relax. Stop it. Walk out. And talk. He did just that.

"Mom?"

Sarah was passing a tool to Charley. Something big and fleshy --and bloody-- was laying on the table, along with a few strands of stringy flesh. Black little pieces of shrapnel were stacked around it. John's mother turned to him.

"John."

"Mom. This guy, Mike? He's Cheri's foster brother. I-I guess they adopted him when he came through the jump, I dunno. Cheri's father picked up when I tried calling them back, a-and they were looking for him. He got really mad and h-he hung up. I decided to call, y'know, Cheri. After that. I, uh, told her that, uh, he's really bad. That we were... near the police station when the shooting started and just got caught in the cross-fire, you know. A-anyway, I told her that and she and her dad are coming to pick him up in like, five minutes. To, uh, take him to-"

Sarah shoved him away from her and placed a hand on her head. Her eyes had taken on a distant, paranoiac look. John stopped at once and took in a deep breath. Oh, alright then.

"The hospital?" Sarah finished, not looking at her son.

"Yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. After that he didn't move a muscle.

"Sarah!" Charley said.

She turned from her son and stared at him, "_No._" She looked at Mike, "What do you think?"

Charley gawked for a moment before clearing his throat, "He's probably got blood poisoning and some internal damage from the shrapnel. I'd say a hospital's the best bet for him. If there's a bet at all... Sarah, why-"

"It's not like we have a choice anymore," she said.

"I wouldn't have been able to help with _that,_" he said. "It's a miracle that we didn't screw him up any further. What are you worried about?"

"_Parents,_ Charley. You may think I'm a bitch, right? Let me tell you; ANY parent is a bitch when it comes to their kid. This... Philip person is gonna put us in a bad position. I can guarantee you that. I'd do the same fucking thing. We can't afford to get on the radar with this... this..."

"Stop," John said.

Charley sighed, "This is way beyond me, Sarah. Just... talk to him. I'll help you out, I'd be glad to."

"Do you _realize_ how SUE-HAPPY people are?!"

"Yes."

"Right, that gets in court. Who monitors court filings?! Who monitors everything?! THEM!" She stabbed a finger toward Cameron, "_They_ do, Charley!"

"Please stop," John said.

"Maybe you'll get lucky. I have no fucking clue, Sarah. Just deal with it, and don't go around _hitting_ your son!"

"He deserves it! He's gonna learn, whether he likes it or not, that he can't stick his fucking neck out like this! It's _too important! _This could have all been avoided if he hadn't gone over _MY_ head! Look what happened!"

_"_This isn't productive," Cameron said. "Stop arguing immediately."

"Be quiet!"

"Shut up!"

"Guys, enough!"

"_Mom!"_

"Quiet!"

They went on with it, oblivious to anyone's attempts at quelling them. Derek eventually joined in and became as embroiled as the first two. Cameron subsided. John stalked out the door and slammed it behind him. Fresh yelling erupted.

He didn't think. He just wasn't thinking. At all. He walked out into the night. The air was crisp and very cool. He could hear the wind swaying through the branches of nearby trees, hear the sound of cars on the freeway, their passages echoed by the gusts. Everything was pitch with tiny sprinkles of light in places, through a window, reflected by a car... The only working lamp on the street illuminated Agent Ellison's car. John had a screw-driver in his hand. She wanted him to take off the license plates? Sure! Yeah, yeah, that would be something USEFUL!

Oh god... why... oh god... why...

He wasn't a leader. With all this? No. That was impossible. It wasn't possible at all, no sir. He wasn't. This life was killing him. He stared suddenly at the screw-driver, all wide-eyed. How well did it stab? Could it go deep? Did it slit well? Could he fucking take his life with it? He couldn't stand this anymore. It was too much, much too much. Run or die. He couldn't... it wasn't worth it... it just wasn't worth it, he was gonna fail. That was his destiny. Failure. This week had proved that preeminently. If he tried to make a difference, he ended up hurting people. If he tried to be useful, he ended up being contrary to that very attempt. It was set... it was _etched_ in stone. He was no leader. No.

The front door opened behind him. Cameron.

"John!"

"FUCK YOU!"

Oh, man. He didn't even realize how...

"John, wait!"

"Leave me alone!" He stooped in front of the sedan, angrily wiped his face (_take a shot of tequila)_, and started undoing the license plate. Cameron joined him a second later.

"John..."

He turned to her. "What? Huh? What, Cameron? What do you want?"

She stared at him, brown eyes wide.

"I... I don't want anything. I'm supposed to protect you, John."

He gripped the back bumper of the car and sobbed against it. "I don't know what t-to do. I wanna be alone, Cam, please."

"It's dark. I shouldn't leave you alone."

"I'm not a leader," he mumbled, almost in passing. What happened with Derek? He liked that. Why couldn't that have gone on forever? He could be so open with him, he realized, it wasn't even funny. He'd _talked_ to him. Sure, he'd cut it all short, but... he could _talk to him. _They'd had something going there that he hadn't thought possible. And Sarah? His mom hated him. He represented something horrible in her life, and now she was just letting it all fly. And now he was failing her. Her expectations, it was all going to shit. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't do it.

"Not a leader..." That was it. He'd snapped. Finally.

Cameron was standing there. She looked so _lost._ She knew she had to do something, but she just had _nothing._ It was amazing, when you thought about it. Programming was governing her now. Protect John Connor. But she also wanted to _help_ him. Be with him. Comfort him. She _wanted_ to do that, and she didn't know how. John didn't even know what was a bigger tragedy. His failures or hers? It was all fucking sad, anyway.

The sky flashed. John nearly jumped. Cameron stared upward, eyes huge. A few seconds passed, and thunder crackled in the distance.

John turned back down, "Have... to get this stupid thing off." He leaned against it and let out a haggard breath.

Rain started to smash down, sudden and mist-like. Everywhere. The continuous sound of its pattering filled John's ears. It came down like bullets on his shoulders, his head, his nose. And, oh, it was drenching. It was so cold on his neck, just _pounding_. A tendril of lightning slashed down from the sky a few miles away. John turned his head skyward and blinked.

"Not a leader," he said. A few trace drops smacked into his mouth. He lowered his head and spat them out. They were pretty salty. Those clouds were probably over the ocean a while ago. Yeah.

It was weird. He really wanted to blame Michael for all of this. It would be so easy to do that, and everyone else would probably accept that. Yeah. But he really couldn't do that. It would just make him even worse. Mike was the catalyst for all of this, but that didn't necessarily mean he was to blame. He was sort of like the flashlight, you know? Shining on John. Revealing him for what he was. Yeah... Lightning came down again, illuminating the street with a perfect flash of white light.

"We should go inside," Cameron said softly.

"Not a leader... I'm not a leader. Look at me... I'm a waste of space, Cam."

"Let's go inside."

"I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know what to think anymore. Everything I do is... it all falls apart."

"Staying in the rain increases your chances of developing a cold." She knew what he was on about. She just didn't know what to say. If she just said something... _anything,_ he'd go to pieces. Sure. But he'd at least deal with it, right?

"I'm useless."

"John..."

He looked at her. She was staring at him. Her face was completely dark, but he could still see the shine in her eyes as he looked upon them. The sky blew up again, and he fancied he could see a bit of the flashing _blue_ in those eyes. The Terminator part of her.

"Let's go inside. Please, John."

He got up slowly. The rain pit-pattered on his head, seeping through his hair, rivulating down his face. She was just trying her best to make him feel better, somehow. Didn't work, of course... but it was the thought that counted. He'd been so rotten to her at times when she just tried her best. And yeah, she was sometimes rotten with him, but what the hell, right? They'd gotten closer, in ways John couldn't have thought possible this week. He'd miss her. They started for the house.

Well, that was it, then. Sure. It was decided. No more. He had it right there in his head. No more of this.

There was a huge, cracking roar of thunder overhead. The rain continued to cascade down, heedless and blank. Car headlights stabbed through the gloom, a little further down the road. Sarah stood at the door. She looked so angry.

John walked through and brushed past her. And Charley. And Derek. Mike was unconscious. He didn't know if he'd see the resistance fighter again, and that just... Maybe it was for the best, anyhow.

Cameron sort of stopped as he walked into his room. And John didn't say a word.

Maybe they said things to him. If they did, he didn't hear it. Inside he was already planning.

--

Hicks started the car again, after a bit of consideration. Nah. He'd had his sight firmly set on Connor's head right from the get-go. But he couldn't... for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to do it. It wasn't that he didn't want to, it was just that something like that would feel... inappropriate. He could do so much better.

He went down Maple Street, nice and slow. Carefully. Rain was a bitch to drive through.

Besides, he knew who he could talk to. To help him out. Make it all better. So much better.

--


	24. Hello Goodbye

When he woke up, he smiled.

He loved weekends. No school, you got to do what you wanted. Just relax and give yourself time to think.

He stayed in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, letting himself really wake up. He barely moved. No, he just blinked a lot, and he smiled occasionally as some thought went through his mind at what he would do that day. Looked real nice, outside. It'd be good to get out there. And he got up. He took a shower, a long shower. Not because he was dirty, but because he liked the feel of the water on him, slashing ceaselessly out from the faucet. He shaved under the water. He brushed his teeth. When he finally stepped out, his mother was there. She had that knowing, slightly mischievous smile on her face that he didn't see enough of. She ruffled his wet-mop head and told him that they wouldn't be doing pancakes today. They'd go out for breakfast. Nothing to be done in the house yet. No chores. Nothing. They could leave right away and beat the early commute.

He liked the sound of that. She smiled at him again when he said so. On they went, to... the minivan. People said mini's were for soccer mom's, but his mother really just liked the extra space it provided. He liked it too. It was just big, big enough to stretch your legs. You didn't get cramped in there. He didn't realize that they'd gotten a mini, actually, but he wasn't inclined to ask why, or from where. Mom treated it like they'd had it for years. It was sort of weird, but in a fun way. He went into the front seat with her and cracked the window, and the wind blew in his face as they drove, air-drying his wet hair.

They talked mostly silly stuff as they went to the diner. His mother was venting about a bad movie she'd seen on Netflix. He said that the guys over at Netflix would be so sad to hear she didn't like it, and maybe _just a bit... angry._ She just laughed. He laughed. They laughed together. When they got to the diner, his mother asked for a booth, far from the exit. He was sort of embarrassed, going to a restaurant with _mom_, but nobody he knew was here. Things like that never _really_ bothered him, anyhow. Their table had a small jukebox. He let his mother choose the first song, which was "Downtown," by Petula Clark. She reminded him that she took after her parents in musical taste. The Smiths were listed a little further down, and he figured he'd choose something low-key when it got to be his turn.

His mother asked him how Becky was. He didn't know _who_ Becky was, but he said that she was alright. A little clingy. His mother smirked at him. Her boyfriend, she said, had been too distant. You could never have a perfect combination. Her son smiled at this. He always liked a challenge. Relationship wasn't about challenge, his mother said. It's about loving each other. He didn't know this Becky character, so he found it difficult to keep a straight face at this. He laughed a bit. His mother didn't seem to notice anything weird, though. As before, she laughed with him.

A waiter came. For some_ really_ weird reason he ordered pancakes. And chocolate milk. He loved that stuff. His mom rolled her eyes at him, that smile on her face once more. She wanted french toast, with lots of butter and syrup. And some coffee. She said she could afford to put a bit away. He wasn't inclined to argue with her. For some silly reason he couldn't stop grinning.

The waiter left. They got to talking about a book she'd read, about the _Titanic. _She was really interested in shipwrecks, actually, she said. It was news to him. Had been since college, she said. Remnants of ancient history, she said. They may as well have belonged to another civilization, another world. Remnants, then, of a civilization. She was into that. He was too, but not that much, really. It was a pretty fun topic, albeit a bit spooky. Talking about death was spooky. She was particularly fixated on the robot drone they used to explore the innards of the ship, unaccessible by the submersible Robert Ballard used. That sort of technology was used a lot by _private_ teams, but rarely by regular people, even in 2007. It sounded like sci-fi toys. She laughed as soon as she said "toy." He wondered why that seemed ironic, but he couldn't really find a reason for it.

"Downtown" faded out. He flicked over to The Smiths and choose "Ask."

When he looked at his mother, she was smiling at him, all appraisingly. She looked proud. He didn't know _why_, but... the feeling of it was neat. She told him he looked a lot like his father. Not completely, but getting there. He'd look just like him in a few years, she said, if only he'd cut his damn hair a bit! That set him off, laughing again. A hair-cut, soon? Alright? It was a deal, she said.

He was turning into a man. Ah, stop it. She was making him embarrassed. But it was the truth, she said. He smiled.

Their food came. He slurped loudly from his drink and giggled like a child, as though to prove her earlier point wrong. His mom clucked and did it herself into the milk that came with her food, but wasn't asked for. They smirked at one another and dug in, occasionally making satisfied noises. It was a lot better than what she got when she was that age, she said. Enjoy it. He rolled his eyes. Suuure, mom.

People went past them. They were older, but there was a younger man trailing behind. Almost impossibly tall, he was wearing a black motorcycle jacket and his face was adorned with huge black aviators. He looked over at the two and took off his sunglasses, smiling benevolently. They smiled back at him as he passed, taking a seat with the others.

Outside, a car backed up on its owner, sounding like a gunshot. They looked up in brief, but mild, surprise and went back to their food without commenting.

He liked this, he said. She asked him what he liked. Just this, he said. Just doing this. It was nice. Why? He didn't know. It was hard to explain, he felt as if this was new. Something really good.

She said he was crazy, and they laughed _again_, now_ long_, incredibly loud and filled with-

John Connor woke up. It was very short, and very abrupt, like the flicking a light switch in a darkened room. Or, maybe it was the other way around. Turning it off in a brightened room.

Cameron was sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at him intently. His breath came short, startled and more than a bit horrified. No... oh god, no... no...

NO!

"Hello, John," she said.

**Flight is Right**

Chapter Twenty Four: Hello Goodbye

He stifled a sigh (or maybe a moan) in his mouth and worked a yawn out instead. "Hey, Cam," he said.

There was a certain hollow ring to his voice, as if he wasn't all quite there. It was only part of the results of a week of personal agony. Feeling all of this had changed something fundamental in him. Call it flight instinct, or cowardice, he didn't care. It was the will to fight. To go on. Depleted. The dream didn't necessarily help. Already he was forgetting it, much as he struggled to retain that... sweetness, that wonderful memory, oh god. He loved that dream, he wanted to lapse back into sleep so he could _feel it again._

He could hear birds singing in the distance. Feeble rays of light poked through the window.

Cameron Philips leaned in, "Were you dreaming?"

"I think so. It was nice." He found his eyes trailing down across the blanket, to his midsection. No real reason why, with only Cameron, but he did it anyway. There was nothing, though. He looked at her. "How long you been sittin' there?"

She was silent for a moment. "Two hours, eight minutes, and... eight seconds."

The honesty was, frankly, a bit unexpected. She had to know that was... A week ago he would have said that was creepy. It was hard not to say that even now, but he settled on, "Oh. Why?"

"I don't have to patrol the house," she said.

He stared.

"We're alone. Sarah and Derek are gone."

Well. That was it, then.

--

_Earlier._

There was a lot of milk. Some soda, assorted meats, eggs... There really was a lot of milk, anyway. It wasn't what Derek Reese was looking for --beer-- but it was in abundance. He grabbed a pink-capped carton and flicked the covering off. A cup. He'd need a cup, right. People generally got angry when your germs got all over the milk cause you drank right from the carton. Holding it in one hand, he went over to the cabinet and stared around for a while, blinking at the sudden darkness that came with the refrigerator's closure. Glass cups crinkled together as his hand groped blindly for a handle. When he was able to secure one, he poured in the milk. Drank.

He looked into the darkness of the kitchen for a while. Beer would have been so much better. It could help take his mind off things and transport him to a lovely world of... well, some such crap, anyhow. Another drink. When he lowered the cup from his mouth, he sniffed. The room kind of stank, mostly of dried blood and other pain-related smells. Most of it was around the table, which was now unoccupied. That Philip person collected his "son" a few hours ago, probably to let him die in a hospital instead of in a house with a few strangers.

Not much had been said. Philip had demanded to see John. Naturally, they told him to fuck right off, and so he did. The girl, probably around John's age, (if not a bit older. She seemed older) looked scared shitless, but was otherwise composed. Really, not much had been said. Charley opted to go with them to basically finalize the fake story they'd concocted. And then they were gone.

It was a huge clusterfuck, all told. The arguing beforehand hadn't exactly sweetened Sarah's already confrontational attitude, and after the Westin's left, she charged right into John's room. Derek hadn't even tried to stop her, because that would be useless. He'd tried twice and you know, three was the friggin' charm. She would have _wounded_ him if he did it again. There'd been a lot of yelling, mostly on Sarah's part at first. None of it bore repeating. Then a long, long silence. It was probably John explaining what had happened. Then there was another explosion. That took a while, too.

Well. A little later, when things calmed down, Sarah decided that enough was enough. They were gonna take the motherfuckers out in Sacremento. Bomb the laboratory to hell and back, kill as many of the cultists as humanly possible, and get back to deal with the Turk. Derek hadn't voiced a word of protest. And, of course, she wanted him to go with her.

_That_ was a bit of a problem. He never shirked the opportunity to exercise, but honestly? He was gonna fall apart at this rate, all of this running and gunning, so soon after he'd been shot _twice._ It was mostly a private worry, though. His _open_ worry was about leaving John alone with Cameron. He'd tried everything to convince Sarah to go alone, take the machine with her (she'd killed one of those things before, she could probably do it again if she had to,) not going at all, _everything_ short of revealing what he had in his pocket. That had to wait, when his mind was a bit clearer. When the pain wasn't so fresh in his head, that they'd been lied to. In the end, Sarah ultimately trusted the machine, of course.

Nothing risked, nothing earned. Something _had_ to be done about these whack-job cultists, and the Connors vouched up and down for Cameron's legitimacy. She'd taken out two Terminators during their refuge here, generally acted like a bit of a nutcase (no Terminator was immune to that, goddamnit), but was otherwise completely devoted to protecting John. Derek believed them... to a point. It was hard for him to take her at a face value. They could go bad. Right? Always go bad, sometimes. That made no sense, but it summed up his feeling about the metal bitch... not perfectly, but pretty damned well.

He waited for about ten minutes before Cameron, continuing her patrol around the house, entered. The microwave clock read **1:50 AM**. Sarah was getting sleep. Derek... he could sleep on the damned plane.

"Come here," he said when she appeared at the doorway.

She paused for a second. Now... _she_ was truly a work of demented art. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before. She walked over and stood a few feet away from him.

"What?"

"What did Sarah tell you?"

The Terminator cocked her head. "You're leaving soon."

"To...?" Lead her on. Never give territory.

"Blow shit up."

Derek grinned. "Don't fucking repeat me. Ever."

"Sorry." She wasn't sorry.

"So what does that mean... huh?"

"It means I will be alone with John."

"Yeah."

She looked toward John's room. "My mission-"

"-is to protect John Connor. I know. You've said that about a thousand times, machine." He leaned toward her. Anyone would have naturally backed away. Right? Cameron was unfazed, of course. "You're a fucking liar. But I know one thing: you _do _care about him." He didn't say that with a tinge of kindness, of whist. It was a fact, no less real... no less tangible than something that was right there in front of you.

She said nothing. That was agreement in itself.

"Christ, you're screwed up," he said softly. He coughed, "I'm not on about you killing him, though. I know you won't."

She looked at him as though to contest that assumption, as if to ask him how he could possibly know that. She couldn't, obviously. "What do you want?"

He looked at her and sighed. May as well bite the bullet. "I'm worried about him."

"So am I," she said, and... god, she said it like it meant _Well, I do MORE. _Fucking machine.

He waylaid her with a raised hand, "Listen. I know you are. God help me, I know. It's funny, earlier today..."

"You said I didn't care."

"Well. I was wrong, wasn't I? I see how you look at him. It's fucked up shit, but I see it just the same, machine."

More silence. This was amazing and all, but Derek really didn't care. He had other things on his mind.

He gave her a shove, "Hey. Pay attention."

"If you do that again, I can't guarantee your safety."

"Don't like being pushed around, I see. You're too used to doing that yourself." He smirked. He didn't shove her again, of course, but he smirked.

"We were discussing John."

"We were. I'm worried about him, you're worried about him. I've seen it a thousand times before, machine, not that you'd know. The, ah, look on his face. Privates who get too much on their plate, y'know, expected to baby-sit new lieutenants, be the cannon-fodder... _sometimes_ they can't take it and they go charging off into the artillery themselves. Because... they know that'll be a quick death, instead of enduring more..." Tilted his head, "Suffering. Right? Don't feel like taking it anymore. Other times they desert. Try their own luck. I've seen it a thousand times before, machine. Not that you'd know." He knew he was rambling, but he didn't give a shit. She'd understand.

"You think John's going to commit suicide."

He grunted. "Yeah. Something like that, I think. It's really strange, but... not _so _strange if you think hard. When the bombs dropped, it was mostly teenagers with us, me and Kyle. Mostly other guys, you know. Outside when it happened, they could easily reach the sewers. By the end of the first month, there were about half of us left. All suicides."

"You think John can't handle it."

She caught on quick. "Getting there," he said, putting a hand on his chest, "I'm leaving, machine. I want to stay, but this is too important to pass up. I'd sit him down, talk. Be frank, literal. You understand? I know you care... I know you fucking care about him, and if he listens to anyone, it'll be... you right now. _I _don't care what you have to do, just... get him out, get him out of this slump. I'm asking this... from... you. I can't ask Sarah."

She just stared.

"God..." he whispered, mostly to himself. He stabbed a finger toward her, "If you don't... if something happens, I swear to god I'll take you apart." He felt dirty, asking _her_ this. There was no other choice, though.

"I would never let John kill himself," she said.

God, even to herself those words probably sounded hollow. The truth was, she didn't even know what the fuck to do, and that was... he hesitated to think of the word "scaring", but it was definitely giving her pause. Her kind was built to murder. Not to analyze people. That wasn't what they did... at all. He leaned forward again. This time she backed up.

"I know you don't feel pain. But I can find ways. I know it's more than just a chip in there, _Cameron_, you metal whore. I can find ways. If not for me... my threats, then do this for John. Just do it."

She nodded. And when she left, he made sure she was in good and in another part of the house, because he decided to return the T-888 chip he'd found in her room. The thing that'd been in his pocket for hours.

--

First cabinet, above the stove... empty. Nothing good, anyway. Second was full of cups. Third, plates, and forth just had baking stuff. Mostly pancake related. John really wasn't in the fucking mood for pancakes. He went on down the row again. Cameron was... he didn't know what Cameron was doing. Probably staring at him, not doing anything special.

"So they just left," he said.

"Yes."

He turned his head to her, face ashen. She was just standing there, doing nothing. "No goodbyes. No 'be careful's'. Huh. Not a word."

And she stared at him, in a way that was so different from... everything about her. And now he'd come to taking it for granted. The eyes were sort of low, sympathetic. Not analyzing. Lips pursed. It was amazing... and so usual now. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He went through the first cabinet door again, hand fishing for something, anything now. He found a box. Pop-tarts. Cinnamon. Delicious, delicious. When they were in the toaster oven he turned to Cameron.

"She just hates me, Cameron. Nothing to talk about." Words like that would have moved him to... something, a week ago. Crying, probably. Rage, y'know, break stuff. It was so empty now. It was because he wasn't denying it, or at least in his head.

Cameron did it for him; "That's not true, John. Sarah loves you very much. I've noticed this."

"You want to talk, Cameron? You wanna have our big talk, Cam? Sit down."

She sat down. John slipped into the seat next to her and stared off into space for a moment. There was no sound but the continuous clicking of the toaster oven's timer.

He looked at her eventually, eyes barely open, barely perceiving. "I'm baggage. Dead weight, Cam. She lets me do things so that I don't feel left out, and now I'm not gonna get even that. And now she doesn't say goodbye to me. I've always been useless. _Fuckin' always._"

He leaned over to her, "In... 1995, she took a pen, a... pen, and she signed on a little dotted line that said I wasn't her son anymore. There's a video tape, if you want to see it."

"She was incarcerated in 1995," Cameron said. "Drugged regularly, out of her mind usually. She probably didn't know what she was doing, John."

"Yeah, well, last Thursday I found that tape. And mom knew I had it by Friday. We had a _talk_, Cameron, and this was all before this whole big mess. That tape was filmed on June 8th, the day the T-1000 came from the future to kill me. That day, she said she had to get out, _because_ of that paper. So she knew what she was doing, Cam... Well, I found her first, we were coming to get her, me and... the protector, y'know. We found her... and... she told me... how stupid I was. Day we rescued her... day she signed away my right to exist as her son, she told me how stupid I am, Cameron. For taking an unnecessary risk, and mind you, it worked. Hell, it _all_ worked. We eventually blew away that liquid metal motherfucker, but you know? It doesn't matter. Damage was done by that point, more than before. I got..." he tapped his head twice, "know-how, Cameron. No more games, no more crazy talk. All of it was real now. It scared the fuck out of me, and she hated that. We thought we'd stopped it, sure, and... that gave us some breathing room, but y'know, we had Charley by then, and she wasn't my mother, because I was always... an _inconvenience_ to her. Baggage."

"But... on Friday she told me it was all a lie, that she didn't mean all of that, with the papers, you know. Oh! Well, great, right?"

Cameron had nothing to say.

"Right? No, no, no. Because... all of this shit happens. All I've done this week, y'know, I take chances, risks, finally. No fucking way, right? She doesn't want me... getting in the way. And you know I did. With Mike, the police. They're gonna find us eventually. It's my fault. And I prove her a liar, because she hates me for this, all of this, Cameron. I'm an obstacle. Connor's first, right? She tells me that all the goddamned time to make me feel good, and it's _all a lie!_" He slammed a fist down on the table and lowered his head.

_Ding!_

--

_Earlier_

"What're we doing about the car?" Derek asked, sliding into the seat next to Sarah. He grunted slightly. Pain was still there. He'd have to deal.

"Leave it at the airport," she said. She checked around the street and started the car. Carefully. She turned her head back toward the trunk, checking the two duffel bags, which were filled with food, two machine guns, and ammunition. They were all accounted for, sure enough.

"And tickets?"

"We'll pay for them."

"Need money to make up for the loss."

"We'll rob a bank."

He was silent for a moment. Sarah sighed and looked toward the house. Christ almighty, if he...

"Don't start, Derek. Please."

"You're making things worse. Tell John goodbye."

She pulled the transmission stick into drive, and shook her head, "I'm... not gonna be around forever. He needs to learn that, Derek."

"Might be already too late for that."

She looked at him, "We've pushed back armageddon before, Derek. There's no such thing as 'too late,' only inevitability. He'll deal with it. I know he can."

--

On the bus they sat in the back, where no one was around. The roads were slightly flooded, and the driver was taking his time, to avoid taking undue risks at the possible expense of the occupants of the vehicle. John was sitting next to Cameron.

"Do you want me to be frank, John?"

"If you have to. I don't..."

"I told you this on Monday. And yesterday." She looked at him, to see if he got it.

"I'm depressed." Yes, he got it.

"It won't last forever. If you are anything like the John I knew, you'll be able to make things right."

She'd been running this through her system for a long time now, ever since she'd spoken to Derek Reese. It was in stark contrast to what she'd told John yesterday, that it was mostly in his head. That wasn't the right thing to do, though. That sort of language made things worse, not better. The irony of her being the only one to have considered this was not lost on her advanced intellect. An intellect she was doubting more and more, now that she thought about it.

He must have realized that she was contradicting herself. Maybe. "How?" he said.

"I'll be there to help you, John, while they're gone. You can speak with me." She knew she was dodging the question.

"Things are getting worse, Cam... it's all piling up way too high. Every day, it just gets worse."

"Maybe you should take a sabbatical."

He scoffed, "I can't rest, I'm not allowed. I can't take a step back, the future keeps rolling on toward us. Every day we get closer, and I can't rest. Not allowed."

"From school, John. And from participating in assignments."

"No, Cameron. That shit's not gonna fly. I'm doomed."

"You can do it while they're gone."

"And what? Forget about the Turk?" He sagged, "I'm between a rock and a hard place, Cameron. Let's just accept that and move on."

"Well, what do you think?" She'd expected those answers. It was all really just a segway into her current question. She had to get there somehow, after all.

"I dunno. Sometimes..." He stopped and stared off across the bus, blankly. She didn't like it when he did that.

"John," Cameron said softly.

He looked back to her, "Yeah. I dunno, I said. I'm just gonna try... my best. That's all I can do."

That was good, Cameron thought. A week ago and he would have told her that he was "really upset" and that they should just drop it. He was being mature with her. For some reason she felt that was quite important. Maybe that was just...

"It _will_ get better, John."

He looked at her, sighing. "Well. Thanks for having faith in me."

She was doing "a good job," then? Maybe. Time would tell. And she smiled.

Boy. She was doing that a lot lately, wasn't she?

--

"Hey. Mike."

Mike's eyes fluttered once, twice. Third time and they were open then, for good. Until he blinked. If he blinked he might lapse again into unconsciousness. Funny how the slightest things set you off, one way or another.

"Hey," he said to his sister.

Cheri smiled at him. "Are you awake?"

"I... think so. Not for long."

He was in a lot, a lot of pain. His side hurt a lot. His head pounded with every second that passed. Cheri was nothing more than a blob in his vision, something blurry and unsure. He knew her voice, though, and that made it all better.

"Am I ok?" First question. Had to be that. A soldier --and he was barely a soldier, but he wasn't concerned with that now-- always asks that first.

Cheri leaned in and nodded. He didn't know it, but she'd been up all night at the hospital, with him and her father. Philip was gone, though. "You're fine, Mike. They spent the night fixing you. They say you're gonna live."

He nodded to her. Alright, then. Well. Good. Cheri went on, "We're actually lucky the Baum's picked you up. Their paramedic friend really helped you out."

Baums? Who...? Oh, right. The Connors.

"Dad was... really mad at first, but I think he'll get over it. He was mostly worried about you, Mike. You still awake?"

He took in a long breath and nodded. God, it all hurt. Really, really bad. But it was sort of dull now, not really the ache he'd felt so long ago... or short ago. Huh. He didn't really know. How long had it been?

"Where's John..."

"John? He's..." she paused, looking at him. "Mike, you awake?"

"I'm... awake. Where's John Connor?"

"What were you doing with him?" She seemed worried. God, what did Philip think?

It didn't really matter.

"Nothing, Cheri. Is he here?"

"No... His last name's Baum, Mike. Are we talking about the same John here?"

Mike stared blankly for a second. Goddamn, he was tired. He wanted to see him again, see his beautiful face again, his concern, _all him._ John Connor, the general, the leader of men in boys form, he wanted to see him again.

"Yeah, we are... my bad."

Cheri sighed. "I think he'd be... at school. Mike, what's with you and him? You were fighting the... other day and..." another sigh. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't do that. Get some rest."

"I don't know," Mike said, ignoring the last part of her comment. He didn't mind the question, "I might love him." He turned his head fully toward her and smiled weakly, "Ironic."

And then he blinked.

--

In gym, John heard two older guys talking about a party that'd go on later. No names, no location, just that. A party. Could be a birthday party or a beer-swilling blowout. Whatever it was, he didn't say anything about it until later, in the locker room. They looked at him like he was kind of nutty (he was still considered new in school, obviously), but they told him where it was gonna happen. Some kid named Bryant was just throwing a party while his parents were out of town. John had been to those sorts of things when he was ten. There was a lot of yelling. And drinking. Drugs. Loud music. He'd stand around the door to the house, --in between acting as a fetch-boy-- looking tough with his long hair (this was before it was considered wimpy) and he'd wolf-whistle occasionally as hot women arrived. He always felt a bit uncomfortable with some of the people who came, though. Some really whacked-out characters.

When he was at those places he never really went inside. Like, _really_ inside. Never talked to people. Just screwed around with Tim, mostly. Never did go inside.

The two guys seemed pretty mellow about it, like it wasn't a big deal. John said he'd see them there. 8:00.

--

At lunch, they talked again. Morris wasn't around, so it was ok. He was absent, apparently.

"How are you feeling?" Cameron asked him.

"I don't know." He wasn't eating, and his answer wasn't really an answer. "I don't know what to think. I feel pretty confused, actually."

"What do you want to talk about now?"

"You," John said instantly.

"Alright."

"When I first met you... you were like any old girl. Curious, which was weird, but you had the human bit down _pat._ And for a while you weren't like that anymore."

Cameron nodded, "I was in infiltration mode when I first saw you. I didn't realize who you were; no picture records existed. I had my suspicions, but I wasn't going to blow my cover before I was positive."

"So you're more... uh, robotic when you're out of infiltration mode."

"That's right, John. I need to commit more CPU processors to combat routines during my primary mission."

"But you're not right now, Cameron."

She cocked her head, "What do you mean?"

"I see it, Cam. When you're around me, when we're alone, you act pretty much like how you did. A little slow, yeah, but... I dunno. When Sarah and Derek are around you're more robotic. When you're with me, you're less robotic. You're more human. Does that make sense?"

She stared at him for a moment, mouth falling open. John smiled lightly. God... could he really do this?

"Yes... it makes perfect sense."

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Because... I'm sort of the same way. I throw up an act when they're around, and we're together. When no one's around I'm... more at ease, I..."

She didn't say a word. Let him talk, she must have thought. She didn't know what to do. That was really weird.

"You said it yourself. I'm attracted to you. We almost had sex, Cameron. Do you remember that?"

"Or a simulation thereof," she corrected idly, as if to belie the weight behind that statement. "I'm incapable of-"

"But you remember."

"Yes. Of course I remember, I forget nothing."

"How does your chip handle that?"

"I'm not sure how, or why it does. It just happens. I've committed a lot of time and memory space thinking about it."

"God..." he said. "Why, why does that happen? I don't even know why."

"What do you mean?"

"I shouldn't be feeling that way about you. Sometimes I hate you, more than anything, Cameron. And sometimes I'd risk a triple eight trying to _help_ you. You're not human, you're cybernetic. That flesh isn't real. You're.. a robot. And sometimes it's like you're protecting me because you feel you have to, not because I made you do it two decades from now. Because you want to."

She nodded, "Sometimes I think you are weak, John. From tactical perspectives, you're irrational, sometimes within range of clinical psychosis. Sometimes I find it improbable that you'll ever become what you're destined to become. I sometimes feel I shouldn't bother. That's in direct violation of my programming. And yet... sometimes I feel like I should do it, no matter what, for reasons that go beyond what's hardwired into my chip. I always hesitate to define what compels me to feel this way. At times I find myself staring at you, John. Not even analyzing your well-being. Sometimes I just stare at you. And when I do, things happen. Things that are entirely unrelated to programs, routines, files, everything. Things that just happen. I can't define them. They _feel_ pleasant. I... like it."

God, that made no sense. It really didn't, but John understood anyway. He wanted, very desperately, to kiss her on the lips. Right here, in public.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're... very welcome. Thank _you._"

"I'm gonna miss you, Cameron."

She cocked her head once more. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. When we're apart, I'll miss you."

"What will you do now?"

"This life is gonna kill me, soon. One way or another."

"No it won't."

"You're right," he said simply, "It won't."

--

Hicks slammed on the door. Whaled on it, rapped on it like the world was ending. There was no reason for it, he just felt hurried. Cars went to and fro behind him on the street, pedestrians stared at his odd body armor, birds floated from tree to tree. He punched the door.

"Coming, coming!"

He stood back and smiled as Cameron Forsythe opened the door. She stared at the mercenary for a moment in grim surprise.

"Hello, Miss Forsythe," Hicks said.

"You never called," she said, her eyes wide and unbelieving.

"Yeah, I never called," Hicks replied, stepping past her, "That's because I'm done."

She stared at him, helpless, "Don't drag me into this, Hicks. They come so often, I can't..."

"We're gonna help them for now," Hicks said, "And then we're both leaving these fuckers. Nice house."

"It's dad's..."

"Right, the guy they poisoned with their craziness."

"He..."

"You know I'm right, Cameron. They poisoned him, and they got him killed. You know I'm right?"

"Yes."

"Well, we can't do anything about _them._ We can do something about the people who physically killed your father, though."

She stared at him for a moment before nodding. Hicks felt like cackling in glee, but he restrained himself. "Good. How?"

"By doing unto them, Cameron. Tooth for tooth. They killed my wife, and they killed your father. We don't need those fucking machines to help us. We'll do it the old fashioned way. They killed someone we love? We kill someone they love. That's how it goes. Sarah's the big hitter, the legend, they say. We'll see how much of a fucking legend she turns out to be if her son's dead."

--

In the library John gave a final check to his backpack. His laptop was inside, along with a few sandwiches. Spare shoes. The Beretta 9mm was outside the school, along with some ammo. He was pretty much as ready as he'd ever be. The day was... really almost like a fog. He'd barely_ thought_, barely reacted to anything, there was just him and Cameron, talking about everything... Nothing else.

At a table, they resumed their talk.

"What about Mike?" Cameron asked.

"He's something else, Cameron. I don't know what to think about him."

"Do you blame him for anything?"

"I dunno. He got us into this mess, him being shot, but that was my fault, anyway. I feel like everything that happened with him's been my fault. You know? Sitting near Cheri got him all protective, although I don't really know why. He was right when I was wrong, I acted like a douchebag around him, and..."

He stared into the book he had laid out in front of him. Science. He was supposed to study, because Cheri wasn't around.

"And what, John?"

"I think he's gay," John said. He raised a quick hand, "I mean, I have no problem with that, it just makes me think about a lot of things I'd rather not... think of."

"Do you think he's attracted to you?"

"Yeah. I think he's a lot like me, that way. He doesn't know what to think of me. I was sort of like a god to him. Jesus with a laser." He chuckled. "That sort of made him lash out at me, I guess. Get all defensive. He saw me as human, not as... something larger than life. It makes me feel bad, actually."

"Why?"

"Because I know I'm not like that, and I can't be that. But yeah, I feel bad for him. He sort of made this all happen, or at least it wouldn't have worked out like it did if it happened without him. It's like this whole week was so bad because of him, I dunno. I don't know how to really forgive him of that, but I... I dunno. I hope he's ok. I wouldn't mind not seeing him again, but I hope he's ok."

--

When they were walking to the bus stop, Cameron spoke to him once more.

"I'm worried about you."

"I know you are," John said. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to become disillusioned, John. You can't."

He nodded. "Thanks for that, but I dunno. I think it's too late. I don't know what I'm gonna do."

"It's not that bad, John."

"Yes it is. This life's gonna kill me eventually, whether by a bullet or by myself. I don't have the strength to do this every day of every week. This week's been a learning experience. It's shown me that I can't do this. I wanted to do this, but I can't do it, you know what I mean? I'm not a leader, not a soldier, not a tactician. I want to be a normal person. I think I'd be good at it. Do you understand?"

"You're wrong."

"Why?"

"Because I know you can do it. I know you have the strength, I've seen it first hand. That wasn't some other person, John. It was you. You will become that person." They walked onto the bus stop and sat down.

"I dunno," John said simply, smiling lightly. "I just don't know. I really think I'd be good at it, you know. Being normal. A normal guy, with a normal house, and a normal life. Maybe someone else will do this. Maybe mom will save the world. I know I can't. I know that. It's as simple as knowing night will eventually go to day."

His unstated behavior was probably scaring her. He'd been so vindictive this week, so full of angst, this resignation was probably a slap to the face.

"Do it for me, at least. Do it for your mother, I know she loves you. Do it for Derek, I know he cares for you. Do it for humanity."

The bus came rumbling along down the street.

He sighed, "Humanity's asking for it if they want me, Cameron. I wouldn't be able to do it."

"You're wrong. This week's a blurp, a fluke, a... it's not you, John. That's not you."

He smiled. "Thanks for that, but I've felt this way for a long time. It's a natural progression. I had a dream on Saturday. In it, four people accuse me of cowardice, of leaving them to die and burn. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy, I think. I saw it, and here I am."

"And today, I had another dream. In it, mom ruffles my hair and smiles at me. She's nicer looking. You're not around. I'm normal. She's normal. We go out for breakfast and we talk. And it's the best fucking thing I can think of. I want that... so badly."

He was crying again. It was the anticipation, at what was coming. That was okay, though. He smiled at her again and kissed her on the cheek. Cameron stared, wide-eyed.

"I really want that. But I'm glad you have faith in me... I'm really glad. I'll never forget it, Cameron. Ever."

"But..." she said, shaking her head slightly.

The bus stopped in front of them. Hydraulics hissed as the door opened, and music came spilling out. It was loud, cheerful and crazy.

_"You say goodbye, and I say hello!" _

"THERE!" John yelled, pointing past Cameron. He brought out the Beretta he'd picked up in the trash can a little further back down the road and aimed it. Cameron turned fluidly, like a river, raising herself from the bench and throwing herself gleefully in front of whatever danger would present itself. For him, selfless.

_"Hello, hello, I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello!"_

John smashed the Beretta into his jeans and sprinted onto the bus, "CLOSE IT, QUICK! HELP!"

_"Hello, hello! I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello!"_

The bus driver stared at him for a moment in mute incomprehension. John lashed his hand out toward Cameron, "JUST DRIVE, I'LL PAY IN A SECOND!"

Cameron turned.

_"Why, why, why, why, why..."_

"JOHN!"

"DRIVE, ASSHOLE!"

The bus coughed and started to move.

_"... do you say goodbye!"_

Cameron stared for a moment, eyes huge, like plates, mouth wide, like a void. The bus rolled forward.

She ran for the door. Tore her hands into the inch-wide gap between the door halves and pulled it open with a resonating scream of metal and plastic. John pivoted himself near the door and delivered a kick to her head as she appeared. Hard. There was a loud _snap_, and pain jackknifed through John's leg. And the suddenness of the blow, along with the gesticulating bus, caused Cameron to go flying out, rolling twice on the asphalt.

"JESUS!" the driver yelled. The door, almost totally broken in half, screeched and refused to close over.

John, his teeth practically trying to grind one another out of existence, stared at Cameron as she picked herself up.

"_Goodbye, bye, bye, bye, bye, bye..."_

"Faster," John said. The driver did nothing else but.

"JOOOHN! WAIT!"

She was running full tilt. She looked so horrified, it was almost unbearable to watch. Closer... closer, goddamnit, no, no, FASTER, DAMNIT.

He was yelling, and he didn't even realize it. He was bawling like hell, tears just flowing, and he didn't care. He was _out of there. _He had to hold onto a handle-rail to keep himself from falling down. This was fucking _it_, all or nothing.

"WAIT!"

"Faster, faster, faster," John whimpered.

No cars around. Pick up... pick up speed. Onto the freeway. The bus was gliding now, _flying,_ even. So fast. He looked out. Cameron was... she was... so small now, like a... he could put her between his fingers. Smaller... smaller... it'd been so _quick._ He watched her stop and immediately start off in the other direction.

He gasped and slid down onto the nearest seat. Leaned back and tried to catch his breath. He hadn't even had to do that much, --it'd been so easy, dear god!-- but his chest was protesting, screaming at every tiny exertion. He didn't even bother to thank the driver. Oh, thank god... it was done. He was gone, out of there, adios, hasta la vista, baby, gone, gone, gone. It was... oh god... he giggled to himself, through his sporadic, horrified gasps.

_"I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello!"_

Gone. New life. She was gone, Sarah was gone, his uncle Derek was gone. And Cromartie was gone, and _oh, _so were the Terminators. All of them were gone, he was alone, on his own. He could do whatever the hell he wanted. He'd fled, it was done! He'd run away, he was AWAY FROM THEM ALL! Poor Cameron, though... Jesus... He felt so fucking bad about that... She'd be after him. Right? But he'd evade her. He knew he could do it, he knew those things far too well, and he knew he could do it. He'd loved her --had to love her--, but it didn't mean shit, because she'd representing everything that was _wrong_ and _constricting_ about his life. He was FREE now! Be able to live, be able to breathe, be able to... to love, to sleep, to be himself... all of it was free, it was so _scary_, and yet he felt drunk with the feeling of it all. Oh god, YES!

"Keep driving!" John said.

"What's up, kid, what're you running away from, huh? C'mon, kid."

"No, no, no. I'm not answering shit. Just drive, ok?"

"A-alright."

"Good!"

BYE BYE, Terminators. BYE BYE, Skynet. BYE BYE fucked up life, good bye crying himself to sleep, good bye hard-ons due to robots, good bye guns, good bye gun FIGHTS, good bye future, good bye... good bye...

_"I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello!"_

He laughed again, barely able to contain himself. _Jittering_ all over, giggling, looking every which way as if he'd been seeing in black and white for all his life and, just suddenly, without warning, he saw COLOR. Ohhhh, god, it was so good. _Look at it all._ All freedom... all free... He could... so _good_...

but...

Why'd he feel so guilty, though?

No, no, no, no, no, NO! Enough of that, fuck that! That was stupid! He was GONE, HE WAS GONNA START A NEW LIFE, AND HE LIKED IT, AND IT WAS THE VERY BEST THING HE COULD POSSIBLY THINK OF! THE BEST! LOOK AT ALL THESE OPEN DOORS, BABY!FUCK YOU, DREAMS! FLIGHT WAS _FUCKING_ RIGHT.

**To be continued in **_**Away.**_

**And so ends **_**Flight is Right**_**, to be followed very shortly (with hope) by its sequel, **_**Away.**_** I hope to make that one shorter and a bit more concise than this one has been. Overall, though, I feel that this is a pretty big achievement for me, as far as creative writing goes. For a while I've mostly focused on plot, narration and making things happen, but I've always wanted to do character-centric and character-driven stories as well. With hope, this was a success, in that regard. If it's mostly not, then hey, practice makes perfect.**

**As is customary after my long stories, I'm gonna hand out special thanks.**

**CIsaac: For being my beta reader for the last few chapters, as well as generally being a damned good critic. I've learned a lot from you.**

**MissBrightEyes (or CamelotGirl, here on ): For praising what I write generally, but in thoughtful, constructive ways. I always look forward to your reviews, not to mention all the fun we have on TWoP. **

**Myxale: For being a loyal reader and always having something positive (and thoughtful) to say. I'm glad I've interested you this much. **

**The rest of my reviewers: For being interested, occasionally PMing me, and inflating my review count! B'whahaha! Erm, well. Right. **

**FOX: Generally a network that's never been my favorite. I AM glad they exhibited common sense in renewing Terminator, though. Without them... this special thanks would obviously be going to ABC, or some other network.**

**Josh Friedman: For making this shit up. It is upon you which my unoriginality is derived! But seriously, I'm very happy with what he's done so far, and doubly happy for the fact that it's drawn me in this much. **

**Alright, I think that'll do it. Stay tuned for **_**Away.**_** And thank you all. I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. **


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